#this is the first time they meet Lahabrea

[angryaurikhori]

Thank you, @calico-heart, for tagging me in the Last Line Challenge! I offer the end of a small action scene.

A mighty roar burst forth from Sinoe as they brought the wide edge down on top of the red petalodus’ head.

As for tagging, if you see this and you want to participate, feel free!

[autumnslance]

The Unsundered and Tempering

There's apparently some kinda post going around ruffling jimmies about the Ascians versus the Ancients, with extreme assumptions about a society we see precious little of ourselves in game and mostly get informed of by people still grieving it millennia later.

Most of them antagonists, that like many other antagonists and allies, folks seem to want to take at face value for a lot of what they say, while often ignoring what they do and how, while speaking.

This is something I have noticed among fandom and roleplayers for decades, so it's nothing new, but there's a lot of times the text of any situation is making it clear that even if a character isn't outright lying--even thinks they are being "honest"--that is not necessarily the case.

It also comes back to making sure one is using all the available information--goodness knows I've made a fool of myself before by missing scenes or text that did explain someone's position on lore and characters!

Regardless of how one feels about certain plot points, storylines, or characters, they all inform each other in canon. Different characters say different things at different times in different company. A scene from two expansions ago may inform a new patch cutscene. Actions may contradict words. It all works together.

For an example, since it's come up elsewhere, I've had doubts about how Tempered the Unsundered were from the moment Emet-Selch claimed it, due to one of the last scenes in ARR, cutscene #5 in "Before the Dawn" where we see Lahabrea and Elidibus speak just before Urianger arrives in response to the Emissary's request for a meeting:

Lahabrea: The earth is fertile, and the seeds well sown. By my will, they shall reap salvation unlike any the world has known. Elidibus: By His will. Lahabrea: …By His will.

The Ascians in ARR and HW spend a lot of time telling the WoL about their One True God. Here though, in a moment of privacy before the Archon's arrival, Elidibus has to remind Lahabrea to check his ego as his actions are for Zodiark, not himself.

This is an early indication, alongside Nabriales's actions in the previous patch quests, that not everyone's on the same page in regards to the Ascian agenda. Nor is Zodiark's hold on each red mask absolute--even the ones initially at His summoning.

EDIT: Not to mention Fandaniel's actions in their entirety in Shadowbringers and Endwalker; killing one's god to usher in the end of the world is not the act of a tempered man!

Further doubt is placed on Emet-Selch's claim by Tiamat. We get more of her situation in the Shadowbringers patches, in the "Righteous Indignation" cutscene:

Tiamat: Recall, mortals, that it was I who did first summon my beloved, praying with all my being to bring him forth. You who contend with eikons cannot well be ignorant of the consequence. Alphinaud: …You too were exposed to his influence. That you are yet in possession of your own will is testament to the indomitable strength of your soul. Alphinaud: But were you to meet with Bahamut again, you fear you might succumb. Tiamat: Indeed. Ask the dragonslayer, and he will tell thee the power we of the first brood wield. Were I to lose myself to the eikon's influence, all would pay the price. Tiamat: But it is of little matter. For even had I the strength to resist, I yet lack the strength to break my shackles. This prison shall be my tomb. Alisaie: On the matter of Bahamut's influence, at least, I believe we can be of some assistance. Alisaie: If you're afraid of being enthralled, don't be─we have a cure. And while we've never tried it on one such as you, its basic principles are universal. Tiamat: Speakest thou in earnest? Alphinaud: There is no future for those bound to the past. Alphinaud: That you committed a terrible sin, I do not dispute. But if you feel remorse, you may yet make amends. We offer you that chance. Take it, or you will forever remain a prisoner, not of these cruel shackles, but of your own guilt. Tiamat: A chance to make amends… To lay Bahamut's memory to rest… Tiamat: When our own star faced annihilation, Hydaelyn granted us sanctuary. And now your foes would bring about Her destruction. This I cannot allow. For the debt I owe to Hydaelyn, and to all who have suffered for my sins…I shall fight with you, children of man.

Tiamat is a victim of the purposefully corrupted summoning magic the Ascians distributed. Yet she is not entirely enthralled by the Bahamut she summoned; she fears she would be if she were exposed further to a primal. Tiamat, as a Great Wyrm of the First Brood, is more akin in her aetheric composition to the Unsundered than most others on Hydaelyn. She knows she is influenced by the primal she summoned, and part of her remaining bound is to protect herself and the world from that consequence.

And then she chooses the cure and to move forward with her life, when given the option. As do other enthralled figures among the tribes when granted the option.

While there wasn't yet a cure when still fighting the Unsundered, entreaties to end their crusade and move forward fell on deaf ears--but I doubt very much it was due to Zodiark's influence entirely, and more their own stubborness after having clung to this course for ages.

The first cutscene of "Unto the Heavens" in Endwalker presents finally the intersection of original creation magic and modern summoning, as preparations are made to board the Ragnarok:

Livingway: You've done a fine job of readying the Ragnarok, but for it to take flight, we'll of course need the power of the Mothercrystal. Livingway: Given its immense size, however, transporting it would be an absolute logistical nightmare. Not to mention we'd need to shatter it into tiny shards for feeding to the engines. Livingway: But a brilliant idea came to me: we convert the crystal's energy into forms that can transport themselves! Urianger: Thou wouldst employ summoning…or should I say its precursor─creation magicks. Thancred: Care to explain for our benefit? Urianger: As you may have witnessed at Bestways Burrow, the Loporrits are capable of creation magicks, which they use to shape the moon's environment. Urianger: Yet simple though they make it seem, 'tis a highly advanced and exacting art. To perform it correctly requireth that the wielder holdeth the object in his mind's eye in clearest detail. Alphinaud: Hence the ancients' meticulous management of concepts. Urianger: Drawing upon this art, the Ascians conceived of summoning as we know it. Urianger: A derivative that replaceth the complexity of concepts with the simplicity of zealotry to make manifest a creation. Y'shtola: I see… By combining the Loporrits' magicks and the tribes' faith, we convert the Mothercrystal into primals of purer form and greater obedience. Y'shtola: Summoning as it was intended, one might say. Livingway: Indeed, indeed! Livingway: While Hydaelyn gave us the ability to use creation magicks, She forbade us from using it to make anything possessed of a soul─or similar. Livingway: She didn't say anything about fulfilling the desires of others, though. So! Borrowing our friends' faith, we'll create deities using the Mothercrystal's power, and send them to the Ragnarok! Alisaie: Am I the only one here concerned about the risk of being turned into a tempered minion? Livingway: Oh, right, I was getting to that… From what I've read in Sharlayan tomes, it appears the Ascians incorporated an additional nasty element into their summoning method: the fervent desire to assimilate others into one's belief. Livingway: Beings thus created are instilled with the selfsame desire, and use their powers to enthrall people─starting with the summoner. Livingway: In contrast, our creation magicks─the original and the best, accept no substitutes─don't incorporate any of that rubbish, so there's no risk of tempering. I mean, if the being was on the scale of Zodiark, you might feel a little “tug”…but I think we'll be safe enough.

From what we get here, summoning is quite obviously an offshoot of the original creation energies of the Ancients, but twisted by the thinness of the sundered mortals' aether and using faith and collected aether as a substitute. The tempering part was a later, intentional addition, possibly after the Unsundered had opportunity to examine the effect of Zodiark's summoning on themselves and extrapolating that.

Now, is some of this likely retconning to explain discrepancies in how characters acted and how tempering has been used? Probably! There was supposedly a rewrite of the main Ascian/Hydaelyn/Zodiark storyline, inherited from 1.0, which Stormblood allowed the time and consideration going forward on how they wanted to resolve this long arc. There's a lot in ARR and HW that has been recontextualized to fit, though some things still stand out a bit oddly; they did as good a job as they could, especially given the many years and writers involved.

But from the more recent writings, the intention is not to excuse the Unsundereds' actions with "they were tempered." And the final proof comes from Emet-Selch in Ultima Thule in cutscene #4 of "You Are Not Alone", having been through the preliminary wash cycle of the Lifestream long enough to have had various enchantments removed from him, while yet retaining his self before that too is washed out before reincarnation:

Alisaie: You're leaving!? Emet-Selch: Of course. The encore is finished, and I will not suffer myself to live again by Hydaelyn's magick. Emet-Selch: But more than that, the future you seek is not the past we loved. That is why we fought. And why I lost. Emet-Selch: But though you defeated me, my ideals are inviolate. Invincible. Emet-Selch: Spare me your pity. I have no use for it. If you would do something for me─save our star. Emet-Selch: See this tale to a triumphant conclusion, and with elation in your hearts, bid the final curtain fall. Emet-Selch: Only then may it rise again and a new tale begin─with new parts for all to play.

Through Shadowbringers, Emet-Selch claimed to want to cooperate with the Scions, while only giving bits and pieces of carefully considered information, and moving the goal posts whenever they did prove to him they were able to pass his tests and meet his expectations. It is not until this moment where, his duty to fight finished and the fate of his beloved world in any form at stake, that he is truly honest about what he did and why.

(I may also have an analysis WIP about comparing him and The Sandman's Morpheus and that stubborn refusal to change his mind and ideals, but it's slow going)

So while we mostly do have to go by what characters say, directly to WoL or to other characters in other scenes, each conversation cannot be taken in a vacuum; it is taken into account with their other conversations, with their actions, with other characters' input. And sometimes, the writers change direction, and new information will overwrite the old, even as it builds off of it.

The game is not consistent about Tempering and Summoning, though the double acts of Shadowbringers and Endwalker's story tries to clean that up. I just seriously doubt, from all the evidence, that the Unsundered were as entirely under Zodiark's thumb as say, one of Ifrit's over-hammered thralls and therefore not responsible for their choice and actions, the plans they made and came up with and clung to in stubborn guilt and grief and rage for so long they couldn't do anything else, even when presented proof of other options and chances to change or move forward.

Because another thing ShB and EW have shown us in both MSQ and in the Pandaemonium storyline, is who these men were, to become the Ascians we know, and how their own beliefs shaped them individually when faced with such loss--and how in each case, those past, pre-Zodiark selves would look at the eldritch beings they became by the Seventh era, and be horrified. Not because of any god's influence, but what they were capable of on their own.

...Well OK, Lahabrea already had a pretty good idea of what kind of monster he was capable of becoming. He also chose the worst way to handle it, and never seemed to learn from that. Elidibus and Emet-Selch though, while adamant in their beliefs, were also warped by what they chose to do and be, to where Elidibus even refused to remember his past to avoid the pain, tunneling into his duty with no wavering. Only Emet-Selch chose to remember, wallowing in it, acknowledging the monstrosity of his actions...and choosing to commit them anyway.

EDIT ADDITION: Relevant lore info directly from Banri Oda on Tempering and many other things.

[tallbluelady]

Your OC, Rowan, is alone in a supposedly haunted building or abandoned ruin.

Rowan had been in an odd mood since she overheard Y'shtola and Urianger's conversation about her aether. That Urianger was hiding aught from her but sought to court her... Well, the ruins surrounding Fannow had called to her to explore just then. Unfortunately, their so-called ally had to taunt her newly improving skills in magic after she cut her hand. She was certain he was left behind, but her skin was still crawling from meeting Emet-Selch. She was a bit surprised that Lahabrea hadn't caused as much irritation while he possessed Thancred, because she did remember Nabriales doing so. Mayhap the Ascians could cloak their aether when they possessed someone. I wonder what Urianger thinks about that...

She sighed at that thought. Despite the fact that he was lying to her, at least by omission, Rowan still felt drawn to Urianger. He sought to be her refuge during this time and with his mere presence and gentle words he was. And whenever he soothed the young Minfilia, Rowan felt her heart melt. There was plenty to want.

If you looked past the secrets.

She supposed there was an irony that the man she trusted the least was being the most forthright with information about the state of her soul. He created the Garlean Empire, and revels in it. Forthrightness means nothing in the face of that.

Rowan then tilted her head. There was a soft hum under the general cacophony of the forest. She pushed a curtain of vines and the hum got louder. She gasped when she saw a figure laid out on a bed of sorts. She tapped on a few tiles with her rapier first - though the weapon was expensive, it would be replaceable - and found nothing strange there. After giving the room a once over for any Ronkan Owls and finding none, she tossed a stone near the bed to see if the occupant would awaken before stepping closer to them. With the figure remaining immobile, Rowan approached.

Twas a male figure, with Viera - Viis, here - features and besides the lime green paint on his face, he was deathly, wickedly white. He was surrounded by dried flowers and small trinkets. Offerings?

"Dead, I hope. Poor bastard looks like he was on the brink of turning," Ardbert said, appearing next to Rowan.

"Tis almost as if someone put him in stasis to prevent that from happening..." she murmured, thinking back to Alexander. She pulled back her hand at that thought.

"Scared to touch the dead, hero?" Emet-Selch drawled from the doorway.

Rowan saw Ardbert give a snarl that she wanted to give the Ascian. She rolled her eyes. "I'm using an onze of caution, Ascian. There could be any number of enchantments on the figure. I only have my one body to inhabit, and I intend to keep it whole."

Emet-Selch raised an eyebrow and sauntered closer. Rowan felt her hackles raise and maneuvered so that he wasn't blocking the doorway. "From what you're doing with the Lightwardens, I'd say that you're doing a rather poor job of it. Or are you saving yourself to be a proper sacrifice?"

"What else is there to be done? I don't see you taking upon the Lightwarden's aether, though mayhap it would do you some good to struggle."

"The defeat of the Lightwardens and the salvation of this world is your trial, hero. I may offer aid, but the heavy lifting is left to you and yours. If you cannot solve that problem on your own, then what use are you to solving mine?"

"I suppose you'll have your way no matter the outcome. You either get a reliable ally, or this shard collapses into a proper calamity." Rowan shook her head. "Anyroad, I've enough of you for the day. I'll return to the others so you don't feel so comfortable bothering me. After I've paid my respects."

With that, she knelt at the dais of the figure and placed a few pressed blossoms she kept in her pack. Though it never felt as if it was enough, she whispered a silent prayer to whatever gods the Viis had in life. Then she felt the rush of an Echo vision.

*   *   *

This wasn't a typical vision, Rowan realized, as she felt she had control of herself. The Viis man tilted his head, studying her. He had dark mahogany skin and black hair in life. And green eyes that matched his face paint.

"Why do you feel so familiar?" he asked in the accent of the Fannow villagers.

Rowan shrugged. "I'm close to you in the waking world."

The man's ears twitched. "There's another familiar presence... and then a putrid one."

"Aye, that would describe my companions at the moment... But who are you? Are you still alive?" Rowan asked.

"They called me Moth Orchid when I was still walking. Though my soul hasn't returned to the lifestream, I can't claim to be one of the living."

She gave a sad hum and shook her head.

"I'll have to release you from this state - you can't be safe with Emet-Selch nearby."

"How do you know it's him?" she asked.

"I met him! A lover of mine became infatuated with him and his secrets. But he cannot be trusted. Even if he says that he wants to work with you, it's... it's not truly you he wants. It's a ghost, a shade he seeks."

Rowan nodded. "Thank you for the clarity. I need every clue I can get to deal with him."

Moth Orchid nodded back. "Anything for a fellow adventurer, Rowan. Were there a way to do aught more than just warn you... though mayhap..."

He reached out his hand and Rowan mirrored him. There was a warmth, then another rush.

*   *   *

Rowan gasped as the world fell back into place. She was still kneeling at the dais but Moth Orchid's body was gone. A whirl of wind floated the flowers and dust, catching on the shafts of light that peeked through the ceiling of the chamber. One of her pressed blossoms settled neatly on her hand, almost as if Moth Orchid placed it there himself.

She turned, and found Ardbert was still kneeling next to her.

"Emet-Selch left as soon as you started praying. Almost as if he couldn't stand your sincerity for the moment."

"Did... did you know who that was?" Rowan asked, motioning to the empty dais.

He shook his head. "I don't think I ever saw him before the flood. And I would remember if I saw him in my listless wanderings."

"His name was Moth Orchid. He was an adventurer like you and me."

"Was he now? Just proves how harrowing this job is. As if my presence wasn't enough."

Rowan shrugged and gathered her possessions. Taking stock of herself, she felt much more at ease. What ever Moth Orchid was able to give would see her to the next step, at the very least.

She never even worried that he knew her name.

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 06: Halcyon

an invitation sent, an summons answered—igeyorhm gets more than she bargained for. female azem x igeyorhm. endwalker spoilers + pandaemonium spoilers. written for ffxivwrites2024. rating: explicit. tags: explicit sexual content, seduction, strip tease, voyeurism, many many amaurotine headcanons 5424 words ao3 link rip to every debate team kid out there, i'm sorry rip to my brain for having to write igeyorhm 40 times and, like the formatting of a tumblr post, not getting it right on the first try once

Nothing ever happens in Amaurot.

That is Igeyorhm’s opinion. She has lived in the capital for countless centuries, and now she is quite certain that it is the prettiest, but blandest place on the Star.

Some would argue this is a good thing. Amaurot is a halcyon bastion of perfect paradise, cultured, peaceful, and pristine. It is a city safe from harm, safe from disaster, the crown jewel of their society and culture. Outside its walls, there may be mayhem and chaos, but here life is peaceful. Wonderful. Kind. Slow. Time to learn, time to live. Time to perfect that which isn’t and preserve that which is.

Boring. Dull.

She would not wish for chaos upon anyone, but some days she finds herself yearning for change. She may very well lose her mind without it—a poor look for the Rhetorician and auditor of knowledge and logic and reason. She is supposedly the cleverest of the Convocation, though she often does not feel like it. That title belongs to her cousin, the current holder of the office of Lahabrea. Clever, brilliant, bold. He is much older than her, but age means little after the first few centuries.

She sighs, casting a glance across the terrace. Like all members of the Convocation, her home occupies a penthouse suite in one of the tallest buildings in the city. Beautiful, airy, with a garden terrace open to the sky. This is where she passes her time when she is not in office. Her garden is lush, filled with vibrant and exciting plants and flowers, some unofficial creations passed to her by Halmarut to keep things interesting. A sunken rectangular pool sits as the focal point, filling the centre. Her favourite divan sits near the edge, surrounded by half-shelves stuffed with books. Her formal library is on the floor below, but she has been slowly moving more and more of it outside.

Igeyorhm purses her lips and turns a page of her book. It is a gorgeous day—a clear, cloudless sky, the sun high and bright, a pleasant breeze in the air. She should be content.

And yet…

She glances at the chronometer on the wall, rapping dark fingers against her seat. Fifteen past the bell. She’s not going to come after all…

The invitation was an impulsive decision. Azem is recently returned to the capital, and gods know she has better things to do than entertain the dullest Convocation member. Hermes’ inauguration as Fandaniel is on the horizon. He is still recovering from whatever disaster happened with Kairos and an investigation into the malfunctioning machine is underway. Emet-Selch has a hole in his memory, which does nothing for his demeanour. Lahabrea is handling that mess in Pandaemonium. And apparently a stray or feral familiar belonging to Azem has been running about Elpis, though she has said nothing of it nor has she claimed it as her own.

Igeyorhm would have very much liked to see it. But here she is, stuck in Amaurot with her books and her rhetoric, doing nothing.

She admires Azem. Tall, strong, witty, clever—she is striking and she knows it. Unlike so many others on the Convocation, she has never been one to bend to tradition, going about her duties in her own way as she sees fit. The last time she came back from a long journey she came very close to being asked to forfeit her seat. Her journeys across the Star led her to many new places, and to meet many new peoples. It is her duty to give hear their stories and give them counsel.

For one in particular, her counsel was a little too close.

Children are rare among Amaurotines. Child created the organic way, so to speak, even more so. Her dalliance with a non-Amaurotine could have ended her career had she not been a force to be reckoned with. As her brother, Emet-Selch was more furious than the rest, though even he could not bring himself to punish her for her trespasses. Her child was born some time ago, though as Igeyorhm understands it, she is being raised far away from the capital.

Azem terrifies her. Fascinates her. How dearly she would love to learn from her example—to commit wholeheartedly to one’s way of life without suffering the fear of shame. She has tried, but she can’t bring herself to do it. She is cold, aloof. Private. Standoffish. Others have noticed. Others have commented.

This is the way she is. The Rhetorician, with the heart of ice.

Metal scrapes against metal and the lift arrives.

Igeyorhm rises from her seat, shocked as Azem emerges from behind the golden grate and enters the terrace. She is gorgeous today—as she is every day. Though her robes are of an Amaurotine style, they have been adjusted and tweaked, creating a lavish outfit of flowing silks belted at the waist. She has forgone the classic black for soft oranges and yellows; together with her pale hair and her glowing orange eyes, she looks very much like a sunset. Her mask sits comfortably on her face, obscuring the hint of high cheekbones and an aquiline nose.

She moves with such determined grace Igeyorhm isn’t sure if she is making up for time lost or if this is simply how she is.

“Azem,” she says in greeting, bowing politely. Her unbound hair hangs about her, shading her face with a curtain of blue-black curls.

Azem laughs and crosses the terrace, sweeping her into her arms. “So formal,” she says, kissing her on either cheek. Her lips are as soft as silk. She smells of citrus and flowers and something Igeyorhm cannot place. “May we do away with titles for today? My head is already spinning and I haven’t yet met with the Convocation.”

Igeyorhm swallows the lump in her throat. Though their names are known to each other, it’s the principle of the thing. “Wine?” she asks, gesturing to a gilded decanter on a nearby table.

Her sunset eyes sparkle. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Igeyorhm pours the wine and hands it to her, retreating quickly to her divan. She sits on the edge and plucks her own glass from the ground, sipping quietly, the awkward silence pressing in on her. Azem does not seem to mind. Nothing seems to bother her. “I’m glad you have returned,” she says.

“A fair amount has happened in my absence, I see.” She perches at the edge of the pool and folds her legs beneath her, taking a sip of wine. “I have yet to speak with my brother. Hythlodaeus tells me he is in a… distraught state, shall we say.”

“Emet-Selch is often distraught.”

“He is. I fear my brother is wound too tight to be anything but distraught.”

Igeyorhm pauses. “Did you enjoy your time away from the capital?” she ventures cautiously. Gods, why is she stalling? She seems incapable of having a normal conversation with her that doesn’t amount of anything but meaningless small talk.

Azem smiles that soft, mysterious smile of hers and sets down her wine. Rising to her feet, she sweeps across the terrace, her vibrant sunset robes whispering around her. She reaches the wall and leans against it, turning her face westward towards Akadaemia Anyder. The light catches her hair, bleeding through the pale gold, setting her profile ablaze. She is not the flames of creation—no, that domain belongs still to Lahabrea—but she is the fire of the sun. Bright, enduring, eternal, and endlessly alluring. Stare too long and you will find yourself blinded.

Fire and ice are opposed. They cannot mix. One will always overpower the other.

Igeyorhm cups her drink in her hands, staring into the glass as she swirls the deep red liquid about. “Tell me honestly,” she says quietly. “Why come here, Azem? I know it wasn’t for the wine.”

“It could be for the wine. You have exquisite taste.”

“Thank you, but answer me truly.”

“Because you asked me to.”

“You could have refused my invitation. Many do.”

“Very rude of them.”

She flushes. “It was a last minute decision, you were under no obligation to say yes. Not when the Convocation gathers tomorrow. We could have met then.”

“And avoid the fun of sipping wine on your beautiful terrace and enjoying the pleasant weather?” She pauses, her gaze lingering on the institution in the distance. “But even if you had not invited me, is it so unusual for a friend to call upon a friend?”

“You consider me a friend?” The words are out before she realizes she has spoken.

Azem throws her head back and laughs. “Igeyorhm, what is in that ice-cold heart of yours that gave you that impression? How many years have we known each other?”

“I could not say. Knowing is different than friendship, is it not?”

“True.”

“And you have never sought to call on me in private before.”

“Our positions are quite distanced. Rhetoric and debate on one side, counsel and pilgrimage on the other.”

“Hardly. I do not believe they are that different. One could argue they are the same.”

Finally, Azem tears herself away from the view. She leans her back against the wall and turns her gaze on Igeyorhm, those intense orange-gold eyes burning into her from even this distance. “You think so?” she says, arching an eyebrow from behind her mask. “Then let’s play a game.”

“A game?”

“A game of debate. Put your texts aside, Igeyorhm. Take your nose out of your books. Let us have a sparring match. The winner receives a boon.”

Igeyorhm wets her lower lip. Her heart is thundering. “What kind of boon?”

“A gift. From me to you, or you to me. Whatever our heart’s desire.”

The pool ripples in the wind, its water lapping against the edge. To Azem, the sound must be negligible. But to Igeyorhm it beats like a drum pounding with the rhythm of her heart. “And who will be the judge? I cannot conceive of asking Elidibus here.”

Azem snorts, a grin spreading from ear to ear. “No, no,” she says, chuckling with mirth. “Please, no. Open the floor to Elidibus and soon you will have the whole Convocation gathered on your terrace, fast-tracking our session from tomorrow to today.”

Igeyorhm smiles. She loops a curl behind her ear, her fingers brushing her mask. “I would hate to see that. Not even my cousin has been extended an invitation.”

“He does not come here, then?”

“Even if I opened my doors to him, he would seldom have the time to visit. That sour business in Pandaemonium still weighs on him.”

Azem says nothing. Silence presses heavily on them both, the weight of the words sapping the levity from the room. Then she shakes her head, her pale gold hair rippling over her shoulders, raises a hand, and snaps.

A small fire familiar pops into existence. It is vaguely humanoid in shape with butterfly-like wings sprouting from its back. Green and orange flames lick along its sides, curling into some semblance of hair as embers trail off it and dissipate into the air. It floats gently above the pool, whistling with glee as it bobs up and down.

“Oh, stop that,” Azem says, giving it a sharp look. “Keep that up and I will send you back.”

The familiar makes a wheezing sound.

Azem’s lips twitch, trying to hide a smile. “Vesta will be our judge. It will make the calls, unless one of us calls to concede.”

Igeyorhm raises her chin. “And how am I to know it will be impartial?”

“You can’t. You will have to trust me.” Pushing off the wall, Azem crosses the terrace to settle on the end of Igeyorhm’s divan. She leans in close and whispers conspiratorially in her ear. “That’s the fun in it.”

The proximity of her presence sends an enticing shiver rolling down her spine. “And the loser?” she asks. By the Star itself, how she wishes Azem would unmask. She is the sole member of the Convocation whose face she has not seen. What does she look like beneath it? Is she as beautiful as her grace would suggest? “In the halls of debate, the winner may be rewarded with congratulations and cheer, but it is common practice for those who do not to denote their failure. If we are to play this game in the spirit of my domain, surely there must be some punishment.”

“Punishment?” Azem reaches for her glass of wine. “You certainly enjoy an escalation—”

“Penalty, then. Consequence, if you prefer. Or shall I keep digging through synonyms until I find one that appeases you?”

She chuckles and takes a drink. “What should this punishment-penalty-consequence be?”

Igeyorhm drums her fingers against her chin, lost in thought. The idea forming in her mind is… bold. Unlike her. Its out-of-character nature only makes her want to suggest it more. “The removal of one’s mask,” she says archly. “If we are friends, then surely we see one another exposed.”

Azem pauses. She takes another drink. “Done.” The wine has stained her lips red. “Then shall we begin?”

The rules of debate are simple: assert your thesis, defend it, and find the logical fallacies in your opponent’s. Argument and counterargument are etched into the building blocks of Amaurotine society; even from the earliest age, they are taught to defend reason. Theirs is a culture that prides itself on logic and wisdom, settling disputes with words and discussion first and warfare and combat second. Regardless of what Nabriales argues, as custodians of the Star, it is their solemn duty to protect it, not to sunder it apart.

Rhetoric and debate is oft considered the least impressive of any Amaurotine art. In a society of well-spoken individuals, being articulate and eloquent with words means very little. It is not enchanting like Altima’s compositions, nor beneficial to society like Deudalaphon’s inventions. It does not heal like Emmerololth’s medicinal practices, nor does it create like Lahabrea’s phantomology. But to shift the mind, convince others to see the way you do—it is a delicate art, powerful in its subtleness. And no amount of spellbinding creation magicks can turn one into a powerful orator.

It is not typical for Igeyorhm to become stuttering and tongue-tied. On most days, she is cool and clear and succinct—when she has time to prepare, she can shift the direction of the Convocation with just a few words. Debate is an art easily learned, but difficult to master, and its strength cannot be underestimated. Each member of the fourteen could claim to be an orator, but none of them have expertise. Her own cousin is too frank and blunt. Emet-Selch has yet to understand the role charm plays. Elidibus is too young, and his seat requires him to be impartial. Only Azem’s erstwhile mentor, Venat, understood the power speech can hold and how to wield it. Who else could convince the Convocation that she would not return to the Star upon her retirement?

With the right words, anyone can be convinced of anything.

“The floor is yours, Azem,” Igeyorhm says, leaning back casually on the divan. The movement tugs at the neckline, pulling at the neckline, exposing her collarbone. She hooks an arm over the back, running her fingers across the rich embroidery. “Your opening statement?”

“Already?�� Azem brushes her long hair over her shoulder. “I admit I was not prepared to begin. Perhaps you should take the lead.”

Igeyorhm smirks. This coy display is an attempt to disarm her, convince her to take to the stage first out of kindness. Azem must know as certainly as she does that those who speak first are often the ones to lose. “This is my house,” she says. “It is my honour to go second. Your opening statement?”

Azem catches her eye. “Should I stand?” she asks, already rising to her feet. “I have been gone for some time, I’m uncertain of proper procedure.”

“If you wish.” Igeyorhm looks her up and down, lingering on the way her robes hug her curves. Her travels beyond Amaurot is etched on her body; it shows in the bare arms corded with muscle, in the strength of her legs, in the confident preciseness of her movements.

Azem cocks her head, a little smile on her lips, and bows theatrically. “Our seats are of opposing nature,” she says. “I am a traveller. I see the Star for what it is beyond the narrow walls and minds of Amaurot. Yours is the reverse—embracing the uniformity, upholding the status quo. Your rhetoric is not designed to bring change, but to uphold existing laws without question. I look outwards, whereas you look in.”

I don’t disagree with that. Not that she can say it aloud. “But as you travel, you offer guidance to the people, no?” she counters. “What is the difference between guidance and rhetoric? To give counsel is to convince. The wisdom you impart persuades them to your side, to your point of view. In that way, our seats are the same.”

“Hm.” Azem’s smile widens. She raises her cup. “What does Vesta think?”

The familiar’s flames hiss and whistle and it performs a little loop in the air, pointing a fiery finger at Igeyorhm.

“Ah. You are the winner, I see.”

Igeyorhm blinks. Over already? They had hardly begun. Her win is deflating, not satisfying. “Victory, then,” she says. Her nails scratch the divan’s embroidery, catching on the fine threads. “You do not have to keep to arbitrary rules made in jest—”

The familiar whirs.

Azem arches an eyebrow. “Oh, I see,” she says, tracing a finger absently over her belt. “Vesta says it should be the best out of three. To give me a fair chance, naturally. I am arguing against the Amaurot’s finest orator, after all.”

Igeyorhm pauses, mesmerized by the movement of Azem’s hands. The way her long fingers trace the bright brass, then float across the gossamer silks, gentle yet firm. This is no longer a game. They are vying for something, but it isn’t the prestige of their seats. “Even if it is best out of three, you have still lost this round,” she breathes, her voice low. “I believe you owe me something.”

Fingers against fabric. Twisting. Pulling. Touching. “Not my mask. Not yet.”

“Then something else.”

Water laps against the edge of the pool, gentle and pulsing.

Azem smiles and unclasps her belt, letting it fall to the floor. The silks fan out around her and grasps the overlayer, drawing it up and over her head.

Igeyorhm inhales a sharp breath, a rush of heat coursing through her. Azem is pale beneath her robe—her breasts full and round, her skin marked with a flash of stretch marks and a silvery scar on her side. Beneath the curves of fat, she is strong and firm. “Aye,” she rasps. “That will do.”

Azem tilts her head, her fingers toying with her skirt. The band sits low on her hips, the skirts flowing flush with the floor. “Defeat me again and I’ll lose another,” she murmurs, orange eyes blazing.

“Then it is my turn—” Igeyorhm exhales a breath, fingers now scraping against the embroidery. She rolls onto her side, her gaze drawn to Azem’s, and squeezes her thighs together. The pressure only inflames the desire blooming deep within her. “And I submit to you: the purpose of the Rhetorician is to gather knowledge. And so does the Traveller.”

“Is the knowledge gathered or is it hoarded?” Azem pulls her hair to the side, letting it flow over one shoulder and across her breast. Slowly, she slides a palm across her stomach. “With whom is it shared? Is it knowledge for all, or for the few who are worthy?”

“Knowledge is for all, but not all are for knowledge.”

“A nonsensical statement.” She cups her breast, squeezing the soft weight.

Igeyorhm muffles a strangled noise. Her skin prickles with heat. “The question at hand was not for whom knowledge is gathered, rather that it is. The Traveller guides the people of the Star, understand them, speak for them. The key to understanding is a knowledge itself.”

The little familiar whirs.

“And there we go—I have no choice but to accept defeat once again.” Azem smiles a hooks a thumb over her waistband. “I knew such games would lead to nothing good.”

She pushes her skirts down. Naked save for her mask, she steps out of the pool of bright fabric.

Igeyorhm grips the back of the divan. “I have won twice,” she breathes. “Care to challenge me a third time?”

Azem laughs quietly and pads across the cool floor. She throws out a hand, dismissing her familiar with a single gesture. It puffs out of existence like a candlelight snuffed. “I am amiable to a third,” she says, reaching the foot of the divan. She rests a knee against it, one hand caressing her breast. The other slides across her thigh. “But an addendum: this time, if I win, take off your mask. If I lose, I will remove mine.”

She exhales a trembling breath. “Yes.”

Azem smiles, that impossibly alluring smile. Her palm brushes her inner thigh. “There is a world unlike any other beyond this city,” she says, her fingers slipping between her legs. She exhales a soft breath, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek as she sinks into her own desire. “The Rhetorician seeks to record it, to study it, to learn all they can from it.”

Igeyorhm’s eyes widen, lips parted as she watches. She is fascinated, enthralled, arousal rushing through her as she imagines what those fingers would feel like slipped between her own. Ignoring her clothing, she presses cups a hand against the space between her thighs, pleasure washing over her.

“But the Traveller…” Azem lets out a small moan, her gaze lingering on Igeyorhm. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes alight. “You would examine it from a distance, Igeyorhm. But I…” She sighs, bringing herself closer to the brink. “I would experience it for what it is.”

She trembles, bucking against her own hand. There are a hundred counters to this argument, each one better than the last. But her mind is a haze, muffled by desire for the woman at the foot of her divan, endlessly yearning for her touch.  

She could win, easily. But this time, she does not want to.

They have long since stopped arguing the merits and purpose of their Convocation seats.

And this is no longer a game.

“I concede,” Igeyorhm says. “I concede.”

Azem’s eyes blaze.

Igeyorhm meets her gaze—and nods.  

It happens in a rush. One moment, they are staring at each other, hearts pounding, the soft afternoon light warming Azem’s naked skin. The next, her weight sinks into the divan and her lips and hands are on her. Azem climbs on top of her and kisses her deeply, her tongue slipping between her lips to tangle in her mouth—she tastes of summer and wine. Her fingers tug at the straps of her mask; despite the rough pace of her kiss, her touch is gentle, reverent.

There is still a sense of propriety here.

“May I?” she murmurs, her voice muffled against her lips.

Igeyorhm nods. “Yes,” she breathes. “Please.”

The mask slips loose. Sunlight warms her skin, bright and pleasantly searing, like the woman who has her pinned to the divan. She pauses, thrown for a moment by the removal of its weight. It has been a long time since she has taken it off, even in private. She can’t remember the last time she took it off. She can’t remember the last time she saw her own face in a mirror with out it.

Azem places it carefully on the armrest. “There,” she says, stroking her fingers across Igeyorhm’s face. Her blazing eyes pass over her, lingering on the beauty mark on her cheek, the broad shape of her nose, the depths of her dark eyes. She brushes a lock of blue-black curls from her forehead and leans in close. “I win.”

She kisses her again and this time—oh, this time, she melts. Azem’s lips are everywhere—her brow, her cheek, her jaw, her mouth, her throat. She sucks at the delicateness of her collarbone, leaving wicked marks peppered and aching across her skin. Her mask is smooth and cool when it brushes unexpectedly against her, the sensation leaving a strange observation lingering in the back of her mind. They are reversed: Azem, naked yet retaining the sanctity of her mask, while Igeyorhm remains clothed but exposed, her features visible for the first time in an age.

Azem tugs at the neckline of her robe. “I owe you a boon,” she murmurs, voice muffled. Her head is buried in her neck, her mouth hot and warm as she kisses her throat. “Name it.”  

“I…” Words. She cannot think of the words. Gods damn it all, she is the bloody Rhetorician and she’s been knocked senseless. “I…”

“Name it, Metis.”

Her name, not her title. A wondrous shudder rolls through her—she is light-headed, hazy, and yet has never thought more clearly in her life. “Touch me.” Soft at first, then firm. Strong. A demand. She links Azem’s hands with her own and puts it on her breast. “Touch me. Kiss me. Do what you wish to me.”

Azem laughs, her breath rippling enticingly across her skin, and she squeezes her breast. She rolls off and stretches out beside her, tugging at her robes. Metis lies motionless, anticipation coiling deep within her as Azem pushes her skirts up and the weight of the robes pressing into her stomach. Her lover—lover is it, is it not?—strokes a hand across her thigh, slow and sure, and her legs fall open.

Her mouth covers hers, kissing hungrily and she swallows her gasp as her fingers slip easily into the slick heat.

If she returned to the Star right now, she would do so happily.

If she could float away in this haze of ecstasy and release all her responsibilities, she would.

If time could stop and this moment could last forever, she would welcome it.

A cry escapes her, soft, gentle, humming on her lips, and she closes her eyes, sinking blissfully into the cushions. Azem’s weight presses beside her, anchoring her to this moment. Her lips wander, her hands roam, touching, caressing, stoking the fire. Metis sighs, her back arching as two of those long, pretty fingers slip with her in a single stroke. They thrust, curl, slow and deep, coaxing pleasure out of her until she is shaking. She bucks her hips, chasing the sensation, demanding more—a demand her lover is happy to oblige.

Her lover laughs and presses a kiss to her brow. She slips her fingers free and with a quick shift of her weight, traps her hips and straddles her. Metis’ eyes fly open and she inhales a sharp breath, a protest on her tongue—

Azem presses a fingers to Metis’ lips, then to her own. She rolls her hips—a test, a challenge, her intense sunlike gaze lingering on every part of Metis’ face—and arches her back, raising her hands behind her head. She lifts the length of her hair and lets go, the curtain of pale gold-spun silk glowing in the midafternoon sun as it falls free.

Metis watches, enamoured, mesmerized. She cannot look away from this woman in the mask atop her.

“I…” The words will not come. She is breathless, weightless, her mind numb, her body yearning for an end. “Azem…”

She shakes her head. “Iphigeneia,” she murmurs. She yanks Metis’ skirts up to her stomach again, rougher and coarser this time, and slides a hand between them. “No titles here among friends.”

“…friends…?”

“What would you say we are?”

Her fingertip ghosts across her clit—feather-light and impossible—then presses firm against it.

A wave of pleasure crashes through her.

Metis moans, chest heaving. Her hands tear at the divan, uselessly trying to find something to hold onto. She is too good, too much, too everything. Her thigh clench, muscles spasming as she draws nearing to her peak, an impatient whine fluttering on her lips. She is falling apart in Iphigeneia’s hands. Both of them are on her now, the fingers of one stroking her core with deliberate, tantalizing motions, the other working her clit in slow, languid, circles.

“Geneia,” she moans, too overcome to say the whole of her name. “Geneia, I—please…”

Sweat shimmers on Iphigeneia’s chest, her breasts, her stomach. Her mask catches the light, silver and white reflecting the light, its metallic surface so polished Metis could very well see her reflection within it. “This is good?” she asks huskily.

“I… yes…”

“What do you want? Would you like to let go? Or would you close you eyes and see where I can take you?”

She bites her tongue, wound so tight with desire she is close to snapping. “I… mhm.”

A small, little measly sound. She has never sounded so ineloquent.

Iphigeneia smiles.

Her orgasm ripples through her in, numbing her mind and soul. She cannot think, she cannot do, she cannot be—all she is, all she has become is the sensation coursing through her. Her name falls from her lips in a half-scream of joy, the syllables falling in a stuttering, helpless staccato through her gasps as she trembles and relaxes, her swollen cunt clenching around her fingers.

The tension courses through her again and again.

And again until there is nothing left in her.

When her mind clears, the fog of lasting pleasure hazing the fringes of her mind, she is lying limp and boneless on the divan beneath Iphigeneia’s comfortable weight. Her eyelids flutter open and she looks upon the golden sun burning bright above her—the flame that has done what none thought possible and melted the ice in her heart.

Her mask remains in place, safe and secure. If she had half a mind—which she currently does not—Metis would ask her to remove it. Seems silly not to, after what they have shared. There is nothing more intimate than this, save perhaps sharing one’s transformation.

Iphigeneia drapes herself over her, brushing her fingers across her cheek as she stares into her dark eyes. She brushes damp curls from her forehead. “Are you all right?” she asks quietly.

“I…” Metis trails off. “Mhm. Thank you.”

“You owe me a boon,” she continues, linking her hand with hers. She raises it to her lips and kisses the soft skin. The hand of a custodian. A librarian. An auditor. One who has never left Amaurot. “Since I have granted you yours, it’s only fair you return the favour.”

Metis strokes her other hand through her hair, enjoying the feel of the soft locks between her fingers. She lets it go, strand by strand, and brushes her fingertips across Iphigeneia’s collarbone, down her chest, across her breasts. She cups one gently. “Let me give it to you, if you want,” she murmurs throatily, her voice low.

Iphigeneia kisses her. “I am sated for now.”

Her stomach twists with disappointment. She isn’t quite done herself. Perhaps she can convince her otherwise…

“But for my boon,” Iphigeneia begins.

“Forget the boon,” Metis croons. “It was a jest—”

“I had something else in mind.”

“Very well. What is it?”

She meets her eyes. She takes a breath. “Your cousin is proving to be quite a hindrance and I am tired of it.” The shift in her tone from hazy bliss to cold and businesslike hits like a winter breeze. She is Iphigeneia no longer; Azem has returned in her full determined force. “I would ask for your help. I need to reach the lower floors of Akadaemia Anyder. To the Words of Lahabrea. There is something I need to see for myself and I would not have him interfere. And you have a way in that I do not.”

It is not quite a question. The words carry more command than a request.

Igeyorhm pauses. A command, not an ask—from a fellow Convocation member. There is something going on here, something she cannot put her finger on. Azem’s motives may be shrouded in mystery, but there must be a purpose behind it.

Nothing happens in Amaurot.

So, who is she to say no?

[shroudcryptid]

FFXIVWrite Day 27- Memory

They track the white-robed Ascian north, through the winding old mining tunnels, and out into the smog-drenched valley. Their nose begins to runs and their eyes burn, but still they press on. This is little, after all, compared to the smoke and fire of the Praetorium- or even Carteneau. 

They slow for a moment, hearing phantom screams, and then take a breath- and immediately regret it, coughing at the smell of fouled eggs. It hadn’t been a problem last time, but… Ah. Perhaps they should have listened more to the Chirurgeon, about how their airways were not yet fully healed from said smoke and fire.  

Rough rock meets their hand, and then their arm, as they lean heavily against it, chest contracting in wheezes. This… this was not the time to falter, they tell themself. Their prey lies just ahead, and the vicinity of an Ascian is no place to show vulnerability…. Hand trembling, they fumble for their pocket, where a soul stone of soft white whispers to them. 

A hand companionably pats them on the back, and they startle, although all it does is sent them further into shallow gasps, dropping to one knee this time. Their breath won’t fill their chest, won’t bring relief, and a seed of animal panic begins to sprout. 

In the state they’re in, they don’t register the hand returning, resting between their shoulder blades. What does grab them, though, is the cooling, shady stream of aether trickling from it, flowing through their chest and- 

The next breath they gasp in is deep, and- they can breathe. 

Starving, desperate, they pant heavily. It’s not long before another cough takes them- this time, resulting in an expulsion of mucous, dark with old blood. 

The healing continues throughout, and at last the heaving of their chest slows, calms, along with the pounding of their heart. 

They groan softly, and shift to stand, accepting the hand that pulls them upwards. And then, they realize the texture of metal claws interlaced with their fingers. silky gloves against their palm. 

It’s most definitely amusement, that smirk beneath the Ascian’s mask. The flavor of amusement that the rich, the removed from daily need would have, as they watched the desperate club each other with metal and wood upon the bloodsands. 

Hissing roughly, they yank their hand back, in their haste catching their skin upon sharp edges, leaving streaks of blood as with the other hand, they lash out. Their strike wobbles through thin air as the form twists and vanishes, equally rippling back into the world a bare malm away. 

The Ascian is clearly enjoying itself, they note as they wobble and stumble, having expected a fleshlike resistance, as with Lahabrea or his lesser peons. A white robed sleeve is raised to its mouth in a simulation of polite laugh muffling. It’s a far cry from the retaliation against Minfilia earlier. 

“Come, now.” It says, congenially. “Ah- perhaps you would like another hand, Warrior of Light?” 

Effective the Ascian’s healing may have been, but they’re already feeling the lack of the steadying coolness, the smog burning their throat and chest. . 

With effort, and the relentless pounding in their head only growing, they gather their feet under them, and lunge again. They catch the Ascian midsentence, and their swipe that would have bisected an ashkin- it doesn’t fully connect, but instead of empty air- it’s like running a hand through water. If water was dark, dark, like a new moon night.

They crash into the rocky wall shoulder-first, the leather pads taking most of the force, but twinges of recoil pain still jolting through them. Their hand comes up to slap at the wall, to brace for balance, and to their distant surprise, the wall itself hurts, as their hand leaves bloody streaks. 

And, as if the world itself were conspiring against them, that’s when their vision ripples, in what they now know to be the echo. The ringing in their ears spikes, and then quiets as the vision takes them.

Or, at least, the vision is what they expect. What they get is- static. Static, static, stabbing their eyes, crackling in their ears. Blurred, faded shapes when they concentrate, when they reach- something deep, dark beyond belief, immense beyond understanding. Hungering, wanting to hold everything safe within itself. Safe from the fire- and oh, they see that. The fire, the flames eating away at the most beautiful of cities, just as the monsters ate at the screaming people in its streets. 

There’s a man there, pale robes shining with wretched firelight, one splash of shadowed moonlight in a room full of desperate shadows. Splotches of red on their masks, and as they try to focus the blurry vision, to see, the pale one reaches up and, with both hands, takes off his mask. Revealing- they can’t see details. Not the color of his hair, his eyes, nor his skin. 

What they can see is that it’s a he, a young man. And that firm resolve is writ in every ilm of his face.

The vision blurs at the edges, before they’re thrown from it. They come back to themselves, the wretchedness of their chest and aching lungs, and an odd trickle of wet at their nose. Oh, and the Ascian kneeling over them. 

Over them? Oh. Yes. They’re on the ground. And the Ascian is there. Woozily, they blink up at what they’d now call a him. 

“-strong is your gift, I wonder.” He’s saying. “Just what did you see, for the cost to be so high....”  With the back of a folded talon, he reaches down, draws it through the wetness now dripping over their lips. For a moment, their woozy eyes slip through focus, and they see how it comes away red.

They still lurch forward and, with open jaw, catch and crunch down upon where the meat of a hand should be. 

For a moment, or an eternity- one of those, either of those. There’s stillness. And then a distant, yet genuine laugh. 

“Very well. If you volunteer.” The words are more wobbly than before, as if their echo has grown tired, strained itself. And then, the mate to the hand between their teeth comes up to their forehead. Aether pulses from it, catches them in a twisting snare they’re in no shape to resist. And then peacefully, gently, pulls them down into sleep. 

[rigil-kentauris]

Prompt #3: tempest

it starts with the square where hades first met azem. he builds it almost without a thought. the hexadecachoronic tile tessellations still yet peek out from the silt, and it takes only a breath of work to sweep them up and over into a glittering memory. the streetlights, the benches. the tall fountain in the middle whipping up water drawn from an underground offshoot of the anyder.

(he didnt meet azem in a square. he met azem outside the convocation, not azem then, just- with his straight back and spitfire speech and blask mask and hy- and the sound of laughter in air as someone decided now was the time to indulge in some sport.)

this is a perversion. his people are dead. he cannot do this. he sees a tower wrecked 'round a rock pillar, and it is a branch of a building that once housed a hall of mirrors, an art exhibition azem wanted to go to and hades reaches his hand out and pulls, and the rocks crumble down into the water and the aether surges through the superstructure-

(-and azem, of course, hated amaurot. he couldn't stand being there, he hated the excess, the distance, the arrogance-)

-no. a hundred years pass and hades stirs the logosdrome into the sea, where the greatest debaters had come to fling logic and hope in each other's faces and where azem had once stood up before the entire star and stared down the man who told him that a simple piece of fruit did not matter-

(it was never about the fucking grapes, azem hisses-)

-and after logos the rest of the city comes easy. one by one the blocks of amaurot come to life under hades' aether, twisting further and further into the sea, wavering, shimmering, melting into place. there is azem in the flicker of a shade there. there is azem in the burble of a voice here. there is azem in the final touches on the final days spent making the final building, the convocation, the debate deck, thirteen chairs and then the last one, inscribed with his sigil and filled with shining aether until it was a sun, a star-

(azem strains in the center of the square where lahabreas bindings have pinned him. he trembles under their pressure. for me, please hades says, see- reason? sense? what was there to say?)

(azem forces his head up. he cuts a vicious smile.)

(there is no mask to dull the molten fusion in his eyes)

(he opens his mouth and says the one thing he has never said before in his life, a title that leaves his lips like a lead-lined arrow aimed at the unprepared heart of the man standing before him. and. and. and-

...and lets be honest, shall we?

the city is empty.

all thats left is you.

[caranraw]

You know how Delion says, in the latest quest, that the Mandervilles seem to alter reality around them? I've been actually brainstorming a crackpot theory for how that could actually work in canon: what if the first Manderville was an Ascian (maybe Lahabrea himself, given their inclination for crafting and rejuvenation), and the Manderville family are the anti-Zenos?

Whereas Zenos has inherited his great-grandafther's genes and become the embodiment of being overpowered and broody and tired of the world, the Mandervilles are the embodiment of being always positive and they shape the world around them according to slapstick, over-the-top antics, and rule of fun - like our limit breaks, only instead of spending their dynamis all at once they just have a low-level field going on at all times.

This includes Hildy's incredible resistance and regenerative powers, because death and broken bones and lasting harm are Not Fun, and therefore they can't happen to him or the people around him. Even falling down from Dalamud can't kill him for good, and all that happens is that he goes into a fake death for a while and eventually wakes up believing he's a gentlezombie.

The dynamis nature of this reality field however gives it a limited range in a world that is mostly governed by aether, which is why Gilgamesh seems actually a serious and dangerous foe when we meet him in Kugane Castle versus the goof he is when he's with Hildy, and why Godbert couldn't just stop Bahamut by being his usual extra self - the effects of the Manderville field can protect them and their family, but it can't cover the whole star.

But here's the cincher: how exactly does Hildy never die? How can he make everything zany? It can't be the power of Light, which is stillness and order. It must be the polarity that governs chaos. That can rewrite the rules of reality. That makes it impossible for things to die for good and forces them to come back to life, as we've seen in the 13th.

That's right. Hildibrand Helidor Maximilian Manderville, the Gentlemen of Light is, in truth, the real Warrior of Darkness.

[ooeygooeyghoul]

Introductions

Hi, hello, nice to meet you. I'm Quaid, and this is the tumblr I have recycled into posting content about my lizard man. This will primarily be a FFXIV blog, as it's my current obsession, wherein I will post rambles, pictures, my art, and maybe a few other things, idk. I'll try to keep it organized with the tags, but the system is a WIP.

I've only got my main man here at the moment, but maybe I'll make some more heroes in the future! Might update this a few times, too...

Other socials - Twitter | Insta

DAWNTRAILED! - NOT A SPOILER-FREE ZONE!

Shiun Kazumasa - Primal | Behemoth

Warrior of Light - Main

B A S I C S | |

Primary Jobs | Warrior, Gunbreaker & Dark Knight

Guardian | Rhalgr, The Destroyer

Nameday | 18th Sun of the 3rd Astral Moon (May 18th)

Age | 25 years [ARR] - 30 years [EW/DT]

Height | 230cm / 8ft 6in

Homeland | Doma, Yanxia

Occupation | Scion, Sellsword, Blacksmith

Sexuality | bisexual, leaning toward men

Strengths | duty-driven, good at anything that requires physical strength, protective, unbreakable will

Weaknesses | Quick-tempered, stubborn as a mule, emotionally constipated, never asks for help, hides his hurts

Tags | #primordial flame: shiun kazumasa (main), #thaniun (wolship), #forgiven fury (Lightwarden AU), #wandering swordsmith: vulcan (ancient counterpart)

P E R S O N A L I T Y | |

An Au Ra whose face is always scowling or smirking, never anything in between. Shiun is brash, rude, and loud - fueled by constant rage. He acts almost purely on instinct and impulse, which causes his friends no small amount of stress. Don't be fooled by his prickly attitude, he's a true hero with a heart of gold. Devoted to saving and serving as many people as he can to the point of being self-sacrificing. Good luck prying any of his deep emotions out of him, he'd really prefer that those stay hidden.

B A C K S T O R Y | |

Shiun grew up in Doma during the Garlean occupation, so his early life was full of troubles. His parents were quiet artisans that submitted, which afforded them a fairly upper-class lifestyle. But Shiun was different in a way they didn't like. He got into fights with other kids, ignored his schoolwork, and was angry at the injustices he saw all around him. His family did everything they could to extinguish the fire in his heart, but he wouldn't be put down any further. After a chance encounter with a resistance fighter, he fought back against a Garlean soldier that had been harassing people in his village. The Empire didn't take kindly to that, and his family suffered for it. He barely escaped and was forced into exile at the young age of 9. Eventually, he made his way to the Azim Steppe and was taken in by a kind family in the Malaguld Xaela tribe. Scarred by his failed attempt at resistance and the pain it caused, he kept his head down and stewed in his anger for years. That is, until a voice called him to a distant land...

R E L A T I O N S H I P S | |

Alphinaud & Alisaie | practically siblings

Shiun is fiercely protective of the twins. He sees a lot of his younger self in them and has taken on a brotherly role with them. He hates that they've been thrust into this world at such a young age, and tries to urge them to just be kids every once in a while.

Thancred | lover

At first, Shiun couldn't stand Thancred. His overconfident playboy persona really got on Shiun's nerves, so he went out of his way to piss off Thancred, too. After rescuing him from Lahabrea, he stopped being so antagonistic. Over the course of the Dragonsong war, Shiun's feelings towards Thancred began to change, which REALLY freaked him out. So much so, that he pretty much ignored Thancred's existence throughout Stormblood while he considered things. He figured it out pretty quick once the Scions started getting yoinked to another realm. More on this later...

Y'shtola | voice of reason

Shiun appreciates Y'shtola's sharp wit and sharper tongue. She sees right through his bullshit and is often scolding him for his reluctance to rely on others. They get into banter contests a lot, which he rarely ever wins.

Urianger | jock & nerd

When they first met, Shiun couldn't understand a word Urianger was saying, but he learned to communicate with him over the course of their adventures. He's got a good friendship going with Urianger, where he patiently explains complex things to Shiun five times and Shiun helps him get better at socializing.

Tataru | ride or die

Shiun would die for Tataru. She continues to baffle him with her limitless talent towards anything other than combat, and he'll do pretty much anything she asks him to. To be honest, her ability to sniff out the truth and love of gossip frightens him a little bit.

Estinien | friendly rivalry

Despite being an axe-user, Shiun's skill with the lance is nothing to sneeze at. The two talk through their sparring more than they do with their words. Shiun was happy when Estinien decided to stop skulking about and join the Scions, but he still gives him shit about it.

G'raha | brotherly friends

When he found out just how much G'raha idolized him, Shiun was flabbergasted. He certainly wasn't used to that amount of admiration, and he found it difficult to deal with at first. But the hesitation faded away as G'raha accompanied him on more and more outings. Now Shiun thinks of him as a brother and irreplaceable friend, determined to make him into a hero too.

T R I V I A & E X T R A S | |

Favorite non-chocobo mount is the SDS Fenrir.

Favorite minion is gaelikitten named Potato.

Has a major sweet tooth he tries to hide from others.

Is really really bad at cooking. Don't taste what he makes for your own safety.

Actually really does like to fight (don't tell Zenos).

I tend to draw him pretty off model lol.

[voidsentprinces]

Man, thinking about how the difference between Ascians and the Twelve comes down to how similarly they loved by how they were influenced in one manner or another. The Paragons loved Amaurot and its people and all of them desired something that was in the past that could no longer be reclaimed. Lahabrea probably just wanted his son back but after jumping so many bodies, Athena's ambition probably took hold of his senses and his mission was removing Hydaelyn from the Source's influence to make room for Athena's Godhood. I imagine if he had remained the same and had Erichthonius by his side the entire way, Lahabrea would of eventually sided with Venat on the issue. His memory forged from Athena in Pandaemonium sees the modern people as a bit weak in the aetheric region but the people of the future which is more than content to accept. Eitheirys survived the Final Days and he was happy with it. But a Lahabrea driven mad by the Heart of Sabik and the influence of his other absorbed half? Of course he'd be self-destructive and crazed to the last.

The Elidibus we come to know was a Primal. He had love for his worshipers and his brothers who pleaded to Zodiark for aid to return to the world that was. Themis would of tried to be an ambassador or Emissary for the new people of Eitherys. But a being driven entirely by the prayer of its people? He had his mission. He couldn't see past it. The Themis inside Elidibus only briefly seen here and there as a fading conscious who takes great interest in the use of the Crystal of the Azem. Before the prayers over take his senses and he become set on combating us at the Seat of Sacrifice. Slowly being stripped back down to Themis as he is absorbed back into the aether stream in the Syrcus Tower on the First. Sees him more pleasant, tame, and almost contently pragmatic. Sending us back to Elpis cause it was the right thing to do. Even though he didn't quite understand why he did it. The only prayer guiding the Primal Elidibus's hand being the vague memories of Themis from that point on until finally he faded away.

Emet-Selch loved the time he spent with Hythlodaeus and Azem. He loved the duty he had as watcher of the Underworld. But he has spent a thousand, thousand life times hearing the whispers of his fallen Amaurotines. Twisted by the prayers of Zodiark and seeing Amaurot through rose tinted glasses. He wanted to reobtain that perfect world that never truly was perfect. He wanted things to be as they were. He is briefly and happily able to go along with Eitheirys being the way it is until the untimely death of his firstborn son sends him grief stricken back to the mission ahead. And in the end, a part of him saw there was just no returning to how it was. So he puts on a performance to see to the funeral proceedings of both him and Elidibus while handing over the memory of Amaurot to us.

The Twelve love Eitheirys and the World itself. Many of them were Amaurotines with their own studies and tasks to see to. But some of them were wanderers of the land itself, outside the scope of Amaurot. Some of them were hunters, wanderers, wild men. Some of them were scholars of the life of Eitheirys or creation of new things. The Twelve were made up of those who loved the world beyond Amaurot. Who cherished its people in one way or another. Who would take it in any way it presented itself. They themselves are influenced by Venat's ideals, her wishes, and her love for the world as well. They sacrifice and become her Thirteen watchers who stand by and see Hydaelyn sacrifice for the good of the star. Before deciding to meet with her champion and go out and meet the people of the world after remaining distant for so long. Loving mortality as it is not as it was. They are initially taken aback by the changes of Nophica and Halone. As Gridania became more aggressive in its war between Duskwight and Wildwood for control of the Black Shroud as well as the supposed word of the Elementals. Nophica ends up becoming more aggressive and a seeker of combat as well. As Halone goes from being worshiped as a stalwart defender to a patron of the Dragonsong War. She becomes more serious and reserved. But also from mortality worship, Menphina gets a companion in the form of Dalamud and Oschon is able to walk amongst humanity. Showing that mortality can had dire and positive effects on them. They are an ever changing, ever growing people to be loved and cherished and seen happy as they can. So each of the Twelve set about ensuring the continuation of not the Eitheirys that was but the world as it is and the world that it can be.

A drama teacher once haphazardly described to me in Middle School that a Greek Tragedy was a story where almost everyone involve dies horribly in the end. While a Greek Comedy is that most people survive happily but the main character still dies in someway at the end.

And I feel like this applies to the Ascians and the Twelves as Tragedy and Comedy. Had Lahabrea not lost his son, been influenced by the Heart of Sabik. I imagine he would of actually been someone seeking for the betterment of the world. And eventually, perhaps after the First Umbral Calamity, seen the error of the mission and been against destruction against the star in such a form. Had Themis not become the Heart of Zodiark and transformed into a Primal, controlled by the fears and fervent prayers of his people. Elidibus would of possibly been a force of good, taking on the mantle similar to the Warrior of Light and guided the new people as Emissary, as was his want to do. And Emet-Selch, would of probably taken the longest. He was stubborn and set in his ways but also sentimental to a fault. The whispers of his kin driving him to many umbral calamities for them, the weight of it crushing him beneath it. I imagine if his son hadn't suddenly died in a such a manner, had the firstborn remained a sort of moral compass for him, he might eventually of called the entire business off. And been content to pull back from Garlean conquest happy to tend to the people he now ruled over and turning the magitek discoveries to better the people of the realm like Cid Garlond would come to do. But alas, they were all influenced in a manner that would bring about their down fall. Each love's twisted or marred by a tragedy and so in the end, they both fall. All in their own tragic ways.

And the Comedy of the Twelve? That they accepted the world as it was, believing in Venat's hope and stalwart determination. Even when they were changed drastically like Nophica and Halone. Even when they were suddenly rendered into two like Nald'thal by the prayers of the people. They saw the good that could come from it all. And so, choose to sacrifice themselves and die in the end after enduring for so long. To give the world a better chance. It is a sad affair but not in a light of tragedy like the Ascian's deaths. Think back to Lahabrea absorbed by Nidhogg's eye and then unceremoniously dispatched when Estinien finally destroys the eyes, Emet-Selch's "Remember we must live" moment and appearing the Seat of Sacrifice as a shade bringing the fandom to its knees, and of course Elidibus's "The rains have ceased" all of which are presented as "Alas, the poor villain..." moments. While the Twelve's sacrifice is an emotional moment but it feels like they're now finally able to lay down and take the well deserved rest. Except Deryk who chooses to continue to walk amongst mankind with his companion contently. As was his want to do.

All Ascian deaths are painted as Elidibus remembered, "The rains have ceased...and we have been graced with another beautiful day. But, you are not here to see it." The battle has concluded, the fight is over, but their kin are still not returned. It was for naught. But it is time to move on.

While the Twelve's deaths are painted like the quote, "The End has come...and it will be beautiful." As many Amaurot centric characters espouse in Endwalker. The time has come to bid farewell after standing so long against the despair and darkness. But hope has taken root, it is time to fall asleep. But it was beautiful was it not? Disappear into the shimmering gold curtain and lay your head down to rest.

Ascians loved Amaurot and its people but ill influenced by the things of the past, outside their control. The voices of past Amaurot haunting them to be saved, to make them gods, to return things how they were. Who looked upon the dawning of a new era in flame horrified and unable to stand against it. The Twelve loving Eitheirys and its people and are influenced by them, the people of the present. Who look to the new sun rise with both hope and despair. Seeing the flames of despair bringing them low but also being brought back to their feet by the light of hope rekindling. Two sides of the same coin.

[ofdragonsdeep]

6: Halcyon

A fabled bird.

In the midst of trying to stop Athena, Ar'telan has a question for Lahabrea's shade.

In the shallowest reaches of the aetherial sea, Ar'telan beheld a ghost.

They were not ghosts in the way that the souls that drifted by were ghosts. Oh, they were dead, but this was far, far worse than a meeting with the departed.

Athena had created them on a whim. Ar'telan did not pretend to understand why she did what she did, only knew that it was abhorrent to him in every incarnation. She wanted him to find her, he thought, and this was a way to help.

It was likely she hadn't even considered that it would hurt.

The researchers had kept their distance from Lahabrea, but despite Erichthonios's uncanny resemblence to Claudien, they were happy enough to speak with him about the nature of the issue they faced. Erichthonios had not been a scholar in life - a phrase that hurt, knowing he could step through time and see him living, if only for a fleeting moment - but he still knew a great deal about this.

Lahabrea stared at him.

He should have left long before this, of course. He had never had a conversation with Lahabrea that did not end in disaster, and this was not like to be the first time. This simulacrum, pasted over with a hasty coat of paint, would not have the answers Ar'telan had wanted from Lahabrea and never managed to seize. He couldn't look at him without remembering the pain that he had caused.

"I see now why you could not elaborate in Pandæmonium," he said eventually, his voice quiet, but it carried in the silence. Ar'telan took a breath that failed to calm his nerves.

"A shame that you will never truly know that."

Lahabrea nodded, his face pensieve. It was strange to see him without the immediate burdens of his role weighing on his shoulders, though given the nature of their foe, the stress was never far from him.

"You and I are both aware that I am barely a person in my current state. This form will last until the aether Athena stole to forge it fades, and she did not plan for that to take long. Yet you stare at me as if I can help you." Ar'telan fought the urge to flinch.

"You can't. I know that."

"Then leave." He folded his arms. "It is only a matter of time before Athena conjures some new horror to bar your way. You will not want for distractions."

Ar'telan hesitated. He was almost certainly right - a situation he did not like to attribute to Lahabrea, but not unusual in the grand scheme of things. But he was all that was left of Lahabrea, save for the broken shell of Hephaistos. And Hephaistos would not know anything that would help Ar'telan, so he would not burden him with the question.

"I want… an answer to a question," Ar'telan said eventually, swallowing back his nerves.

"Do you think I can give that to you?"

There was no malice in it, just a simple statement of fact. It was very like the Lahabrea he had met in Pandæmonium, and unlike the Lahabrea of his time. Of this time.

"…No. But I wanted to ask. If you do, then…" Then what? He didn't even know. The spectre of Lahabrea's fate haunted him still, how even his desperate attempts to save the ones who wanted him dead had been unable to reach the first of them he had wanted to save.

For a while, he had thought it the desperate desires of a fool. But he had saved Elidibus, after a fashion. A small fragment of him, but what else was left, after all that time broken?

Could he even weather it?

"I suppose I owe you a question," Lahabrea allowed. "Ask. But do not expect an answer."

Ar'telan supposed it was the best he would get.

"I have… something," he said. "I wanted to know if- if it meant anything." He ignored the puzzled quirk of an eyebrow Lahabrea responded with, reaching into his pocket and pulling from it the one thing he had never told anyone else about. To hold out the crystal to Lahabrea, even this recreation, felt somehow wrong to him. But he did it all the same.

Lahabrea's expression went from puzzled to a frown of concern. He reached out as if to touch it, but paused before his fingers met the crystal.

"…This is… The same substance as the Heart of Sabik," he said. It was a credit to his stoicism that he could say it without even a hint of fear in his voice, after everything the Heart had done to him. "Black auracite."

"Yes."

"Where did you get this?"

"You gave it to me."

The pause was palpable. There was no outward change to Lahabrea's expression, but there was the subtlest shift in his stance. Ar'telan knew it well for what it was, after all this time. Hesitation.

"It was a gift, I think. But I'm still not sure," he continued. "I… wanted it to be a gift. But…"

"I cannot think of any reason that I might want to give you a fragment of something so uniquely dangerous," Lahabrea said, his tone frank. "This is not the same stone as the Heart. But something lurks within it still." Ar'telan started in surprise at that, closing his hand around the stone as if Lahabrea might think to take it from him. "Do not mistake me," he said. "It is the barest wisp of essence. One of your aetheric composition would be entirely unable to detect it, much less interact with it." He frowned. "But if it was me who gave you this, and it is not the Heart, then it is not the tiniest fragment of Athena who sleeps within it. We are not enemies, but even if we were, I would not inflict her upon you so." He shook his head. "The corruption concerns me, but it is not cleansable. Why did I give this to you?" Ar'telan looked down at his closed fingers.

"…I don't know," he replied. "I thought perhaps if I showed it to you, even if you could not give me the answer, I would… figure it out from what you said. But I just have more questions now."

"I do not know if it is true in the present, but Auracite was incredibly difficult to procure in my own time," Lahabrea said. "If I truly gave you this token, I did not do so lightly. The fact that it is corrupted is… concerning, but irrelevant. Do you truly know nothing of why?"

"It's… complicated," Ar'telan replied. "I didn't think much of it at the time. Well, I… I did, but not… not in a way that mattered." Lahabrea's concerned frown did not shift. "A different question, then. If you had the Heart of Sabik when you died, would you suffer the same fate as Athena?"

"Perhaps," Lahabrea replied. "It would depend upon the manner in which I met my demise. Assuming there was naught else to trap my soul, and there was… room, within the stone, I imagine I would be similarly imprisoned." He folded his arms. "The soul over which my likeness has been written is not my own. It is not even a fragment of my own, just as Erichthonios is not his own."

If there were nothing else to trap it…

"And if it were trapped, could I get it out?" Ar'telan asked. Lahabrea sighed.

"Perhaps," he repeated. "Extracting a soul from a prison not designed for such a thing is rarely a clean experience. And depending upon the manner of my death, I suspect it would be kinder to release my spirit to the aetherial sea, rather than attempt extraction." Ar'telan grimaced at how easily he could speak of his own death. "There is much you have not told me, this is plain," he added. "But you know me. For it to be me that you know, in this present, then I have been alive far longer than man is meant to live before his return to the star. If you truly seek to recover this… present incarnation of me from a supposed prison, I cannot guarantee that he will much resemble me." He paused. "Though I suspect you know this already, given your actions in Pandæmonium."

"…Yes," Ar'telan replied.

"I would tell you not to attempt anything rash, but you are a shard of Azem. No matter how diminished your soul, I suspect their capacity for utter stupidity that still somehow does nothave consequences has carried over," Lahabrea remarked. Ar'telan sighed.

"If only there were no consequences," he said, "but thank you. I will… I will get help before I do something stupid."

It was a promise he might even keep.

---

It was only when the dust had settled that Ar'telan had the time to think about the question he had asked.

He sat in his room at the Rising Stones, crystal in his hand. For so long he had held on to it, long after the hope of Lahabrea speaking to him about all that had happened had died. He had been so scared, back then. Even now, having sorted through the feelings, having learned so much about the Ascians - about the Ancients - he still didn't understand it, not really.

He had seen the memory, just like everyone else in Pandæmonium. Lahabrea had searched so desperately for love that he had damned himself, and found nothing. He had cut out his passion in Hephaistos, but he could never cut out his heart. It had been a long time - millenia of waiting, of fighting, of endless hosts and exposure to the stone that held the woman who had hurt him the most. It was no wonder that Lahabrea did not remember him, being a mere footnote in the story of Pandæmonium as he had been, but…

Elidibus had held on to something. Something of Azem, yes, but something of him, too. And Elidibus had been broken beyond belief by his death and subsequent rebirth. Surely Lahabrea would have rememebered something. If not him, surely he would have held on to the fact that nothing hurt more than looking for love and finding none where it should have been promised.

Lahabrea had acknowledged his part as the villain, though. He had admitted he would do it, if the need arose, even if that had been an untempered memory. Ar'telan thought about the stories Erichthonios had told him, in explaining the Phoinix, of Lahabrea's search for the bird of eternal life. Of Suzaku, an auspice and phoenix both, that proved his success.

What drove him? What had driven him then? Did Ar'telan even have the right to think of finding that ragged soul and begging answers of it one last time?

He did not like to think what it would do to him if he did not like the answer. But he owed it to him to look, if only to grant him the peace of a death not tainted by what had happened in the Singularity Reactor.

He would find it, somehow. If nothing else, even what was left of Lahabrea would find the parallels amusing.

[feralkwe]

because @thefreelanceangel said i could.

i finally unlocked thaleia last night. there's a whole story about why it's taken me so long that involves me on a windy road through doing the msq as a sprout tank and the utterly terrible experiences i had doing raids, especially alliance raids, to the point where i, a tank main, have been (and in many ways still am) afraid to tank them. that's not what this post is about. it's about kit, and her journey to this point in her story. about the narrative given to her when the blessing of light was first given a name and how the events of her life as "hydaelyn's chosen" has shaped the one she understands now.

like i said, i unlocked thaleia--i have yet to do the actual fight--after winding through this story involving eorzea's twelve. by the end of the quest leading up to it, i realized kit's been making this face for some time now:

she's not amused. she finds nothing charming about these shenanigans, about being drawn into a fight for the amusement of these beings that, as far as she can tell so far, is an attempt to end themselves, or something akin to it. she's watched g'raha and krile and their companions gush and delight over meeting the twelve and their pursuit of knowledge to understand them, and all kit can think about this whole time as she's surrounded by these so-called gods disguised as adorable creatures is the utter injustice of it all.

she does not, and likely has not for some time, felt like hydaelyn's chosen or champion or anything other than a windup toy let loose in a cruel, fated time loop while being given drips of information about who she is and why she has to be the one to take it all on. time and again she's been pitted against the only people who have been honest with her--evil, but honest--and forced into situation after situation to have to kill them. she's been misled, abandoned, and at times essentially lied to by the person supposedly blessing her as she fights to save the star and everyone on it.

and i feel like this is a last straw. as these gods gave her their sage wisdom, something inside her broke.

she knows. she knows that the process to make a hydaelyn was the same process that made a zodiark. she knows that lives were sacrificed to give form and life to both of them. she also knows that one set of those souls have been all but forgotten by history, their world-saving sacrifice shadowed in a false narrative of a power-hungry and evil god bent on destruction, while these ones have spent eons being worshiped and prayed to as protectors of the world. she's angry. she's hurt. she's still grieving so many things from a life that was stolen from her to lost loves she's had to say goodbye to again and again (and in some cases again). the twelve have played a game with her while the unsundered fought for the forgotten, and she cannot look upon their faces without seeing hythlodaeus, or elidibus, or emet-selch, or even lahabrea. even as her partially rejoined traveler's soul craves adventure and the new, she's come to resent so much of it. she's come to resent venat, hydaelyn, and while kit can and does acknowledge this woman-turned-god's role in saving the world she loves, it carried a price kit sometimes lies awake seething over.

i figured out awhile ago that kit's greatest strength and greatest weakness is her capacity for love. it drives her. it's what prompted her to leave golmore, it's what carried her to the ends of existence. it made her take up her axe and fight wars and primals and ascians lightwardens and despair itself. it made the scions her family even when she initially felt used by them. it made her fight to save them. it made her drive herself to near annihilation again and again. it made her fall in love with urianger, and forgive him. it made her hate g'raha tia, and forgive him. it brought her an intense and confusing relationship she did not understand with emet-selch even as she put an axe through him. it made her trust hythlodaeus without question. see thancred in a different light. it made her weep for elidibus long before she traveled back in time and fell in love with him. every step of the way love has hurt as much as it has spurred her on, taken as much as it's given, and yet she overflows with it. and i think that's a call back to her life as azem. we see through the shadowbringers class quests that ardbert, too, brimmed with love he could barely contain that drove his every step forward, even when the world he gave himself to save turned against him. and now she carries that, too.

venat asked her, "has your journey been good? has it been worthwhile?" in many ways, she would say yes. it's given her so much. it has led to her being loved and cherished by many people in many ways across time and space. but it has taken just as much from her. maybe more. the love the twelve claim to have for her feels hollow, much like hydaelyn's has at many points in time. whether or not it was is subjective to every player and the way they see and interpret their wol and the writing the game presents us. but kit fails to see the love in this. she sees and feels more manipulation of the love she carries that makes up the fundamentals of her soul. even if they do not know the full of who she is--azeyma seems to have a sense of it at least--they know enough to know that she can serve their purpose. and at the time of their sacrifice to hydaelyn, venat very much knew. kit carries that. kit resents that. maybe that makes them victims, too, and maybe she'll find a way to make peace with all of this later, when she's done being furious at the double standard for the souls who volunteered to sacrifice themselves to create zodiark.

idk, i feel like this is the first time canon has given me something on the screen that feels entirely at odds with the character i've been playing, and it's a jarring experience. every smile she made at every god in myths of the realm has felt abrasively wrong for her.

i'm looking forward to the conclusion of this story, and i'm looking forward to where her journey takes her going into dawntrail. but for now, i have one very angry, hurt, and grieving bun on my hands, and i don't see the resolution of those feelings coming with the completion of this raid series.

[thelittlestancient]

WIP Wednesday!

Tagged by @azems-familiar Tagging: whomever would like to do it! but I would love to hear what's on the docket from @ectojyunk and @feralkwe...

Since you all liked the Sky Pirates AU so much, have a piece of it:

The morning after their arrival, Hephaistos awakens to find King Azem standing outside of his cell, watching him.

"I spoke with Themis," the king says, voice soft, and Hephaistos can't help but brace himself. "He says you saved his life--risking your ship, your crew, and your own life in the process. Hardly the sort of behavior I'd expect from a ruthless pirate intent on my destruction. And yes, he told me about your letter."

"The woman who captured him, she was…" A dozen words cycle through Hephaistos' brain. "Mad," he settles for. "She lusted for power, with which she sought to control others. I do not know if such a thing is possible, but she wanted to steal his. Had I not intervened, she certainly would have tried."

"And the fact that your son was aboard her ship played no part in your decision?"

Hephaistos winces. "I--"

King Azem smiles at him, shaking his head a bit. "I would expect no less. You play a coward's role but you're willing to stand and fight when the stakes are personal enough--and you want them to be. The mask suits you less well than you think, Hephaistos, but you've sunk too much into the act and so I'll play along. I'll let you out of here on one condition."

"I was not expecting to find myself an open book, laid bare before a mortal enemy. What do you want?"

"Not what I want--Themis wants his diplomatic mission to your king, and I intend to see that he has it. I'll be sending along a letter offering once again to discuss reparations for my misspent youth to King Lahabrea and the possibility of a permanent ambassador, a hostage if you will, to his court."

"You intend to see Themis stationed there as a regular post?"

King Azem sighs. "I have…clipped his wings a bit, I fear. His judgement of me was harsh but neither unfair nor unearned. When he was first brought to me, I'd just lost my mother. She was assassinated by what seemed to be agents of King Lahabrea's at the time, but now I am no longer so certain--I fear some other power is sowing dissent between us for reasons of its own. Such is one of the things I wish to discuss with him. Perhaps he will have information that I do not; perhaps we will have an easier time solving this mystery as allies than as enemies. Regardless, I was a young king and a lonely one, and then Themis was there, speaking to me with a wisdom far beyond his young years and sharing her coloring. It was like I had a bit of her back, in a way, and I feared to ever lose it.

"But he deserves to seek his own happiness, rather than having his fate bound up so tightly in mine. An adventure to a foreign land--with a proper escort this time--will serve him well. Besides, he implied to me that he had already begun the process of, ah, establishing diplomatic relations, shall we say? And so my condition, my charge to you, is this: keep him safe. Protect him without stifling him, as I could not."

Hephaistos turns the king's words over in his head a long moment. "This is…"

"A mission. Whatever else you read into my words is on you." He winks. "The guards will free you when I'm upstairs--alas, security must be observed, even now. You'll be escorted back to your ship. Themis is packing now and will meet you there this afternoon. Let the dockmaster know what supplies you need for the journey. I will not have my ambassador traveling in discomfort."

[autumnslance]

Viewing FFXIV's Opening Cutscenes

When you open the Unending Journey to rewatch cutscenes, you'll notice the Seventh Umbral Era MSQ, the default pane it opens on, starts at the level 5 quest, when WoL first meets their starter city's Scions.

It may seem like the introductory cutscenes upon first making a character, with the vision of facing Lahabrea before waking in the carriage/ship with your starter city merchant triplet and the silent Leveilleur twins are lost, right?

Not so! For whatever reason, the opening cutscenes and title card for ARR as WoL arrives in Eorzea are in Sidequests.

In the Unending Journey navigate to the fourth icon, a silvery Q on a light blue backing; in the image below there's a big red arrow pointing at it.

This defaults to "Chronicles of Light" but open the dropdown menu and find the starter city sidequests: Lominsan Sidequests Gridanian Sidequests Ul'dahn Sidequests They're partway down the list. In the screenshot below, I have them boxed in red with another red arrow on the menu's right side pointing at them.

Since Dark's start city was Gridania, I'm going to select the "Gridanian Sidequests". The very first option is "Coming to Gridania" and describes meeting Bertennant at the Blue Badger Gate.

Here's the first five scenes in the game; the first time we hear Crystal Mom's voice (when that was Mary Elizabeth McGlynn, under her "Lucy Todd" credit) and get the vision of our future faceoff with Lahabrea, then the carriage sequence, Louisoix's voiceover intro and title card, meeting your city greeter, and then meeting your city's Adventurer's Guild Representative.

One more note about this opening cutscene!

If viewing as one of the original ARR classes, the initial scene shows them changing into the level 50 Artifact gear and wielding their weapon of choice; in this example, that's a Bard with a Bow of Light.

But swapping to any job introduced in Heavensward or later, it defaults the job selection to Paladin; below Dark is in healer gear as an Astrologian, but ARR doesn't know how to parse that so defaults to the Gallant Armor with a Sword & Shield of Light. We see this "Gladiator Default" with NPCs who don't have their "real jobs" implemented yet (Thancred in base ARR, Alisaie just before Stormblood, etc) and also when a WoL draws their Crafting or Gathering tools.

And there you have it! How to rewatch the very first cutscenes in the game that we see upon making our WoLs and starting the MSQ.

[otherworldseekers]

Pandaemonium thoughts: Themis (and those other guys too I guess)

Oops almost forgot to put this under a read more. 

/L;KND;FOLAIJKWENR;KLGIJB;KWEJURBG

They really fed us a Themis Feast, didn’t they?

But across the board the character development that culminated in this patch was just astounding. Even more so because Themis, Lahabrea and Erichthonios are not just long dead characters. In this patch they are facsimiles of long dead characters. Technically, there is no character growth possible. And yet throughout the quests our understanding of those characters grows leaps and bounds. 

Lahabrea who we knew previously only as a cackling madman has gone through several transformations along the course of Pandaemonium. From respected leader but terrible father to a man who made mistakes because of a tainted love and denies himself in an attempt to prevent further errors, to a man who acknowledges and accepts his failures and strives to move forward. This Lahabrea we meet in the end has finally embraced Erichthonios and his role as father, but fully admits that duty to the star comes before everything. 

Unlike Emet-Selch, he is not at all surprised to hear about what he becomes as an Ascian. He has no illusions about how far he would go for his duty. Perhaps that is why as Ascians, Emet-Selch and Lahabrea seem to have disliked each other. Emet maintains the fiction that what he is doing is noble because he is doing it for his people. Lahabrea knows perfectly well what he is doing is evil, but willingly walks the path in the name of his duty to the star because that is what he has sworn to do. 

I think it’s so interesting and appropriate how, as opposed to Emet-Selch and Elidibus, they didn’t go the route of making Lahabrea very sympathetic. While, naturally, he’s not a villain in Pandaemonium, he embraces the reality of his villainy without regrets. It’s a fascinating take and I think it helps to balance out what they did with the other Unsundered. 

Erichthonios. I had no idea when we met him how he would ultimately impact me. He’s just this guy when you first meet him. Then he’s this guy with daddy issues. Then he’s this guy with mommy issues. And it’s not until this patch that you get to learn how he truly came into his own. 

That moment when he faces Athena is so good, perfectly showcasing how Erich has learned to accept himself and has found what is really important to him. He grew so much throughout Pandaemonium and it’s in large part to what a difference the WoL made to him. How the WoL inspired him. 

It was the WoL who he looked to, who gave him the strength to find himself and his true family. And it’s the WoL who he is thinking of at the end of everything. It’s moments like this, when the game shows us the difference that our characters make in the lives of others, that I think make FFXIV really special. 

Themis. There’s so much I want to say about Themis. First, omg SE thank you so much for my life for giving him voice acting. Non MSQ quests NEVER get voice acting and they did it anyway. I was screaming. I love his voice so much. (Note: I play with Japanese voices and he’s voiced by possibly my absolute favorite seiyuu: Ishida Akira.) His voice is so perfect. I love it. 

Ok so, Themis. OMG. I am just in awe. The writing for his character has always been good, but this patch just blew me away. Right away you can feel that things are off. His speech and mannerisms are not quite what they were in the first two tiers. And we learn this is because Athena took his memories from the aetherial sea after his death. And though, as he later tells us, all memories but those of Pandaemonium are hazy, he is still a Themis who has experienced those things and those experiences are part of him. This is such a truly unique version of him. Because he is, mostly, his Pandaemonium, pre-Sundering self. He has his youth and the feelings of those times, hope for the future, in addition to love and responsibility for his people and the Convocation. But he’s also the Elidibus we came into conflict with. He knows what’s going to happen to him. He knows who we really are. And I was absolutely mesmerized by how well they conveyed all these nuanced in his mannerisms, actions and dialogue. 

And it’s actually a really neat way to solve the problem of Elidbus’ soul being spent in EW to send up to Elpis. Which suggested that there would be no cohesive Elidibus soul ever again. But here we have Athena basically gathering the fragments of his soul together from the Aetherial Sea and doing a good job of it too. 

The fight. It was absolute perfection. The beauty of the Convocation room. Themis’ true transformation. THE MUSIC. I have been listening to Fleeting Moment non-stop (I am listening to it now) and I could make a whole post just talking about it. It is probably my favorite version of the Amaurot theme now. The emotion in it. *clenches fist* AHHHH it’s so good.

After the fight, Themis admits that it is his interest in the WoL and the desire to know their nature that Athena exploited to bring him under her sway. This is curious since personally I didn’t get that impression from him in the previous tiers. I’m sure he was curious about us, but I never felt as though this was a driving desire in him, the way it clearly is with Ananaseios Themis. No, I think this is something that comes, at least in part, from the Elidibus we in the future. 

Other highlights:

HE’S GOING TO CHERISH EVERY MOMENT WITH US. And I perish.

A reminder that Themis is a badass. Enough to be recognized and respected by all 13 other members of the Convocation. 

And naturally: 

This whole scene was incredible. I love that it’s just him and us. I love that they allow us to be sad about him fading away. That he clearly wants to tell us these things. Wants us to understand that our relationship has purpose and meaning. That he can be content to have played his part in the salvation of the star and his soul can be at rest. 

Every single line of this scene is packed with emotion and meaning. (I absolutely cried.) But what comes after is even more packed with potential significance.

How fascinating, the truths that dwell at the edge of sleep. 

The course of history is set by its victors. It is immutable. And yet...

Should this star continue upon its path...

Look... The light...

This is most certainly a set up for 7.0 and I am FOAMING AT THE MOUTH TO KNOW MORE. WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO THE STAR?? At the end there, is that Themis being reincarnated?? ARE WE GOING TO GET TO MEET REINCARNATED THEMIS?? 

I imagine that would upset a lot of people who are tired of Ancients and Ascians and want them all gone, but fuck those people. If anyone deserves a second chance, surely it must be Themis. He gave so much and got nothing but suffering for it. 

But the possibility also raises some interesting questions about what an Unsundered reincarnated into the Source would be like. 

I feel like I could easily say more but this is already long enough. Anyway, Pandaemonium was amazing. 

[azems-familiar]

uno reversing with emet specifically for Seika

fuck you skdgjhsdjhg

this is 3k words long, very relevant to their verse if i ever write more of it, and has a decent focus on emetraha also, so here's your AO3 link if you'd like to support it there too!

-

The Warrior of Light is in the First.

Emet-Selch had felt it when the Exarch summoned her, that rush of aether and the Tower’s activation tugging at his senses where he’d been wandering Lakeland at a distance, watching one of the so-called Virtues make its unerring way towards civilization. He hadn’t gone looking at the time, but he’d known all the same; it was the obvious culmination of the Exarch’s decades-long study on summoning spells and voidgates. Of the past five years of plucking the Scions of the Seventh Dawn across the rift, one by one, a mistake at a time. Her appearance had heralded the beginning of the endgame in truth, and thus he had determined to avoid the Tower (no matter that it…disappoints him to leave behind his regular teatime meetings with the only other intelligent soul this side of the rift) until he made his last moves, that he might spare both he and the Exarch the…difficulty. Neither of them are fools enough to let their conviction waver, this near to the end, but it will be far simpler to remove the temptation all the same.

Or so he had thought.

The Exarch had sent the Warrior of Light off to Eulmore, it seems, to collect the young Leveilleur twin, and at the time Emet-Selch had thought it an excellent opportunity to observe her in action - though he had not expected her to discern the truth of Vauthry’s identity, and there was little chance to see her combat prowess, Emet-Selch does not need to witness either of those firsthand. He knows more than enough about her skill at arms from the truths of Lahabrea’s, Igeyorhm’s, and Nabriales’s demises, and from Elidibus’s account. No, he wishes to see her around others, and her response to Eulmore’s stagnant society had seemed an excellent litmus test for a hero.

At least until he laid eyes on her soul, of course. 

Leaning against the entrance to Vauthry’s chambers, Emet-Selch stares at that soft green, a shade as familiar to him as his own heartbeat despite the eons it has been since he’s seen it, and swallows down the frankly-hysterical laugh that wants to burst from his chest at the sight. Of course she would interfere here, after everything. Azem had ever been fond of causing mischief and ruining his best-laid plans; it was why Hythlodaeus had befriended her so easily as children. They had both taken such great delight in ganging up on him, even when Venat had caught her attention and her career path and taken her away, and she had begun to spend less and less time in Amaurot and their company. That cheerful delight had never disappeared, not until the very end.

Not until they stood across from each other in the Convocation’s chamber, masks and hoods set aside, and she declared this all wrong and told him that she would act as her Seat demanded in this matter, no matter that it set her against their collective will. That he should remember her as Azem, not the shadow of the childhood friend who had followed him around everywhere he went, begging for his attention.

He had not said, you have not followed me anywhere since the moment you met Venat and she offered you a smile and a compliment. He had not said, I am asking you to stay because I have loved you since the moment I knew what love was and I fear for you, should you leave Amaurot now. 

He had said, I, too, act as my Seat and this body demands, and should you consider yourself more knowledgeable and more moral than it, you are free to resign your Seat.

…no wonder Hydaelyn chose as She did. She too would have likely found the draw to this particular soul unbearable. How many eons have they all been alone?

He watches as she and Alphinaud defy Vauthry for the sake of a simple Mystel child, as she bares sharp teeth and hisses out a threat that Alphinaud interrupts, as her aether rises around her as though she intends to cast a spell-

He stops.

Emet-Selch has been in the First for a century. He is more than familiar with the Light and the way it taints - and the Warrior’s corporeal and incorporeal aether both are saturated with it, her balance already perilously tipped. If the Exarch’s plan is to have her kill the Lightwardens and absorb their aether, she will too-easily fail and turn, he thinks distantly, in some vain attempt to avoid the horror dawning in the pit of his stomach like acid. Because- Hydaelyn’s magic is heavy on her, brand and ward in one, and…

There is only one way one of Hydaelyn’s Chosen would lose their aetheric balance to the Light.

He should leave it. He should. This is the advantage he needs to solidly win his game with the Exarch and push the First into Rejoining; he cannot prioritize one life, one soul, above all else. But she bears Azem’s soul, and when she turns to leave the chamber behind her face is the same, soft and warm, indigo eyes and deep violet-brown hair framing it, despite the ivory scales across her cheeks and nose and forehead. The soft glow of the limbal rings surrounding her pupils is nearly enough to let him imagine the light of ages past in them, and her determined expression is horribly familiar. There is a knife between his ribs, twisting with every breath, and while usually it would herald loneliness now it is merely the strength of his longing, and he hardly manages to teleport himself away before she catches sight of him, reeling with the force of it. Azem had turned away once, but that was before Hydaelyn Sundered the star; he is near-certain that if this reincarnation of her, semi-translucent soul and imitation face or no, has anything near her morals and beliefs, she could be made to see the necessity of their work, the duty he bears. Diplomacy could succeed where challenges via combat have failed.

But if she is tempered. If Hydaelyn’s will holds sway over her own - because while She and Zodiark are not alike the primals of the Sundered’s knowing, and do not temper the same, if Hydaelyn did this to Her own champion it was purposeful and thus must be for the purpose of control - she will never be able to choose anything but this supposedly-righteous crusade. And she will never know what she is bound to, and with her strength, should she survive saving the First, somehow, his people will fall and be forgotten. And Hydaelyn has, in the past, at least done Her heroes the kindness of letting them choose to martyr themselves for Her cause, even if She has lied terribly to them to achieve it; that She does not do so now makes something like bile rise up in the back of his throat.

He had never approved of Venat’s relationship with Azem - it had begun when Psyche was still her student, and they were traveling the star together, mentor and apprentice doing the Seat of Azem’s duty. Psyche had only been a few years older than Venat’s own son, but she was old enough to make her own decisions, even if he felt it certain that Venat had been inappropriate in encouraging her affections. But Emet-Selch had even then been self-aware enough to know much of his dislike and disapproval was due to jealousy - he had hated the way Psyche turned away from him and Hythlodaeus to chase her mentor across Etheirys, the way the home he shared with his partner had ever felt slightly cold without her presence, the way they had both loved her so dearly and she had never once chosen them.

He has enough tenuous faith in Hydaelyn’s morals, despite how much She had changed upon becoming a goddess, to hope that She has done nothing untoward with this young hero who knows so little of their past. But the Warrior is unmistakably tempered, and there is only one reason he can imagine why.

He cannot let this stand, not without at least making an attempt to stop it.

Emet-Selch steps through another portal, this one depositing him directly into the Ocular - the Exarch knows a great many things, but this…he has to hope that this man, with his encyclopedic knowledge of the Ascians and his eight-times-Rejoined soul, is unaware of the state of the hero he has summoned to save his reflection. The idea that the Exarch would willingly use…they are, of course, two sides of the same coin, and the Exarch is as willing to manipulate others to achieve his goals as Emet-Selch is. But this is different, if only for the identity of that evergreen soul.

“Tell me you don’t know,” he demands, bursting through the door into the Umbilicus with nary a warning or a greeting, despite how long it has been since their last meeting. The Exarch is seated at his desk at the far end of the room, studying something from an Allagan tomestone, hooded and robed as he ever is, but his head snaps up at Emet-Selch’s entrance, and for a moment he simply stares.

“...I…imagine there are quite a few things I don’t know,” he says after a moment, confusion clear in his voice, and Emet-Selch grits his teeth and crosses his arms over his chest, fighting back the urge to snap. “Could you be more specific?”

“The Warrior of Light is tempered, Exarch,” he says slowly, enunciating the words over-clearly. “If you have summoned her out of ignorance for the fact, then that is forgivable; if you intend to use that against her for your world’s salvation, I will be greatly displeased.”

The Exarch stares, obvious despite his cowl, mouth opening slightly, and he has never been a stellar enough actor to fake this, at least. Emet-Selch finds himself relaxing slightly despite himself. “Tempered- how? Hydaelyn’s blessing protects those with the Echo!”

Grimly, Emet-Selch says, “It does not protect them from Her. The Warrior’s aether and soul are both corrupted by Light already, despite not slaying a single sin eater; the signs are unmistakable to my sight. You were unaware, then?” Despite your likely-future knowledge, he does not add, but he thinks he does not need to. The Exarch knows he suspects.

“...what do you mean, from…from Her…no,” the Exarch gasps softly, the implication hitting him with all the force of a spell; Emet-Selch can see the way he reels, the way he pales, in real time. “No, She…then- Zodiark? Please, tell me He isn’t…He didn’t…”

There is an aching horror in his voice, realization mixed with some kind of sickness, and it softens Emet-Selch; he crosses the room to the desk and leans against it with a sigh, nodding his head once. “Eldest and most powerful of primals,” he confirms. “My people created them, rather than the summoning you are familiar with; their tempering method is different, and we are not slaves to their will. Yet Hydaelyn does not temper, usually, and in fact wards Her Chosen against aetheric corruption, which leaves me terribly suspicious as to the reason the Warrior has been subjected to it - especially given her identity. As for my brethren…we gave Zodiark life to save our star from terrible calamity, and even now He acts in that capacity. Do not insult my conviction, or this conversation will be over.”

“...there was never any…I…I see,” the Exarch says softly, and lets out a shuddering breath, slumping into his desk. “Then why would She…?”

It is a foolish, aching moment of sentiment that has Emet-Selch shift one gloved hand to rest over the Exarch’s crystal one. “I have my suspicions,” he admits. “It is a long tale, however, and while I swear to tell it to you, at the moment I find myself more invested in finding a way to separate her from Hydaelyn’s clutches, that she might know the truth of our duty and our conflict, and make her own decision. You must know that with her aetheric balance compromised, she will not successfully contain the Light of the First without being consumed by it - aid me in freeing her from Hydaelyn’s influence, and I swear to you I will aid you in return in whatever your contingency might be.”

He knows it is a foolish hope, in part. He knows he sounds desperate, and that he is placing all his hopes in one basket, guaranteeing failure and defeat should her own conviction to Hydaelyn prove true despite it all. But he must make it anyway, even should it be doomed to failure, even should he be doomed to put his duty over Azem’s soul and fight anyway. The memory of her face, of her soul, haunts him the way Azem’s last words do - he cannot simply let her fade into the Lifestream or turn away from him once more without one last attempt. Elidibus will forgive him for this, if it succeeds.

“...aye,” the Exarch says softly, and turns his hand to thread their fingers together. (If he pretends not to notice, then he does not have to pull away.) “I think I can swear that. But- for my own peace of mind, if nothing else- please. Whatever cure we find for her tempering - allow us to also use it on you. If…if only to erase the doubt in my heart.” He lets out a breath and offers a small, tremulous smile. “Perhaps…if this process takes too long, we could find something useful to do with the Light that benefits the both of us…?”

“...perhaps,” Emet-Selch agrees after a moment. “My duty remains absolute, whatever else I desire, but any middle road that does not destroy the both of our duties in the walking of it is one I am open to discussing. And where the Warrior of Light is concerned…” He looks off into the distance of the room, gaze unfocused, and for a moment he could almost see Psyche before she was Azem, laughing brightly, her hair streaming out behind her. “...I must believe she will make the choice she would not before. I must.”

He does not know if he could take her turning away from him once more, even if this is not her in truth.

“...perhaps in the end, she will,” the Exarch murmurs, rubbing a thumb over the back of Emet-Selch’s hand. His other hand rests over the golden constellation engraved in his crystal arm, that terrible, blatant mark of Emet-Selch’s unavoidable affections - a care he cannot truly deny, no matter how he avoids it.

For a moment, Emet-Selch merely watches him, the lines of his face cast into shadow by the depths of his cowl. His eyes, Emet-Selch knows, are a vibrant red, and what fringes of his hair he’s seen are bleached blue-white; there are no ghosts lurking in the curve of his nose or the warmth of his smile, no constant reminder of the past he so longs to restore, the people he so desperately misses, just an old, comfortable enmity. Perhaps that is what makes him so easy to care for - so easy to slip up around, because how many concessions has Emet-Selch made for this man, in the name of their game, when he could have simply struck the Exarch down upon his arrival in the First?

“A truce, then?” he asks softly - too softly, he knows, his voice betraying him in this, because the knowledge of the Warrior’s true identity has cracked something open in his chest that he can no longer bind closed. “On the condition we find an acceptable resolution to this dilemma, one that may let us truly consider this game of ours a draw.”

The Exarch stands and circles the desk, dropping Emet-Selch’s hand to pull him into a tight hug, a tremor in his flesh hand. Emet-Selch knows better than to give in, but he leans into the touch anyway, closing his eyes and leaning his head on the Exarch’s shoulder, slipping one arm loosely around his waist. “...as the only scenario in which I do not lose outright- aye. Aye, a truce. And I will not sleep until I find a suitable resolution.”

“You most certainly will,” Emet-Selch scolds, directing a sharp-eyed look up at the Exarch’s face without lifting his head. Foolish, foolish decision, but- if a truce truly is possible… “You are not wholly crystal yet, my dear Exarch, and I expect you to stay that way.”

“You shall simply have to arrive at a suitable conclusion before I must sleep, then.” There’s a ghost of a smile on the Exarch’s face and Emet-Selch reaches up to smooth one thumb over the corner of it, humming to himself, one eyebrow raised.

“Will I now,” he drawls. “You seem quite certain there is no other way to convince you to rest.”

It is a terrible, dangerous thing, hope, no matter that it is what Zodiark was formed from. Hope that the Warrior of Light can be made to make the choices he so desperately wishes for - that his long millennia alone in the dark may come to an end - that Hydaelyn may finally be brought to justice for Her crimes. That he will not have to stand against this enemy who has made the game enjoyable in truth for the first time in millennia. Terrible and dangerous…and yet he cannot let go of it all the same.

“Hm. I think you must be very persuasive,” the Exarch says, voice low and near-purring - and then he sighs and sobers, arm tightening around Emet-Selch’s back. “...we’ll cure her. I am not losing this chance.”

The steely determination in his voice is the same as when he has faced down sin eaters, Vauthry, and held together his city by force of will alone.

“Nor am I,” Emet-Selch promises - and then smirks, a sharp-edged, smug expression. “Now…shall we judge my skills in persuasion?”

[rainofaugustsith]

Doctor Warrior of Light?

(not about the new expac! but spoilers up to post-EW)

While looking through screenshots, I found myself puzzled by something. Canonically, we know the WoL has hopped through time at least twice:

Five-year hop after Cartenau

Hop into the past to Elpis (apparently multiple times since you have the Pandaemonium raid series start there, plus canon gathering quests)

There's also their jaunt to the First, where time seemed to be moving at a very different pace than the Source for a while (ie, there being 100 years between the events of post-Heavensward and Shadowbringers in First time).

In the very beginning of ARR, while they are dreaming during their carriage/ship voyage, the WoL has a vision of themselves (?) wielding a weapon of Light when they are menaced by an Ascian in the Rift.

During the final battle of ARR, the WoL wields a weapon of Light when they are menaced by Lahabrea the Ascian, followed by two trips to the Mothercrystal - during one, of which, a bunch of their allies appear. The same allies who seem to have no memory of this when they meet the WoL again at the end of the game. Given that we know Azem's talent is to summon help from their allies and bring people together - and she does this on the First and in the 13th too - sure, the Azem soul could do this. But could she get everyone floating through space with her, and nobody comments on it ever again? The other possibility is that the Warrior of Light is precognitive and just had a bit of foresight while dozing off.

Regardless of that, there's another scene in ARR which suggests time travel beyond what we know.

There's also a curious scene in ARR when Cid recalls a day when a luminous figure popped up outside his airship - in the air - handed him goggles, and then popped out again. And he knows it was the Warrior of Light. This has absolutely never been explained anywhere else in the game.

I find myself wondering if the WoL has time hopped a few more times than we know - after all, the help they could have summoned in ARR may have been themselves. Or, alternatively, if Azem 1.0 actually went forward at key points.