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driftward · 2 months ago

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Title: FFXIV Write 2024 - Free Day 2 - 15. Contest Characters: Zoissette Vauban, Y'shtola Rhul Rating: Teen Summary: And for the winner, a shared reward Notes: WoL|Sette

Zoissette and Klynt circled each other slowly. Zoissette with her shield up, twirling her sword in her other hand. Klynt keeping her spear in ready position.

"Begin!" called out Thancred, and the two rushed each other in a blur, coming to clash in the middle of the ring.

Y'shtola leaned forward with excitement, her eyes twinkling, as she watched a veritable spray of aether in their wake, their energies washing against one another. It was rare that she was able to just sit back and watch Zoissette at work, especially under circumstances that did not portend terrible consequences for the star.

And what a treat it was, to watch her lady knight. To watch how the star-like sparkle of her aether lit up and brightened, bright shining constellations meeting the ripples of crashing waves in Klynt's aether, even as they built to a tsunami. She sharpened her effort and expanded her sight, so she could also enjoy fully the power of their forms. Muscles flexing, speed on full display, Zoissette flexing under blows, eyes carefully looking for openings. Rapidly bringing her shield to bear against Klynt's twisting serpentine onslaught. Pivoting, parrying, and then the explosion of movement as she made an opening, catching Klynt off guard, and fully exploited it.

Thancred circled the outside of the ring, watching both contestants carefully, before shouting for them to break. They immediately pulled back to their starting positions, breathing heavily, Klynt with her shark like grin, Zoissette with a less predatory but no less triumphant smile.

Next to her, Lyse cheered, throwing a fist in the air as she cupped a hand to her mouth. On the other side, Alphinaud held a hand to his mouth, and even covered his eyes, wincing. Y'shtola chuckled at him, but spared not much more attention to them or any of her other companions, returning her attention to the ring, waiting for the match to resume.

Her paramour would have the fullness of her attention today.

Thancred called for a start once more, and the two leapt into combat again. Y'shtola felt as well as heard Lyse sigh. "I miss the days when we would spar," she said. "I'm glad that I was able to at least witness this during my short visit here. Gods, I think they've both gotten even faster somehow."

Y'shtola just smiled, not turning her attention away from the ring. "Surely you are not allowing yourself to grow soft in your new role as a leader, are you, Lyse? What would Papalymo say to know you were letting yourself go so?"

She was teasing, and the swat against her shoulder let her know it was well received. "Oh, don't you even! I can still keep up with the best of them, you know. And he'd probably say something like 'thank goodness she finally learned to use her head before her fists' or... something like that."

The two laughed, and the fight continued. Aether flew as weapons whirled through the air. Bodies clashed, forward and back, a fight eternal, neither willing to let ground.

Y'shtola knew how these training bouts usually went. She thought to perhaps pen the script a little differently this day.

"A kiss for the winner," she called out, and heard Lyse let out a gasping giggle even as Alphinaud groaned.

"I cannot watch this," he muttered.

Y'shtola suspected that if she stole a peak at him, she would see him with his eyes covered, but a gap between his fingers to watch the show. But it was not him who had her eye.

In the ring, she saw the shift in Zoissette's posture.

Klynt noticed as well, and adjusted accordingly, backing away far enough to grin viciously at Zoissette and make a 'come hither' gesture.

Zoissette did not move. Crouched. Eyes seeming to look everywhere at once. Klynt began to settle into a low stance to receive her.

She was already there.

The fight was vicious from there, far more heated than before. Klynt crowed, exulting in the new challenge, but Zoissette went quiet. She was inside Klynt's guard, briefly. She was taking shots she normally wouldn't. She was taking hits she usually wouldn't to jockey for superior positioning, seeming to have weighed ahead of time what she was willing to endure and what she could not. It may have looked like she was losing.

But the ring had rules, and Zoissette was very good at games, and more importantly, very good at math. When Thancred finally called the match, both contestants were exhausted, tired, wavering on their feet.

And Zoissette was far ahead on points.

Klynt groaned good-naturedly as everyone cheered, and she met Zoissette in the middle of the ring for their handshake, then they both pulled each other into a hug, laughing, smiling.

"You're damned dirty at this, 'Sette." she groused cheerfully.

"Not my fault you always ignore the points," replied Zoissette. "You cannot just bully your way past every problem, Klynt."

"Can too," Klynt retorted. "Every problem 'cept one. Go get your kiss."

Zoissette laughed, and the two separated, Klynt heading towards G'raha for healing, Zoissette towards Y'shtola, who was standing on the edge of the ring, waiting for her.

She was a goddess.

Tall, sweat marring her face, water from her eyes, hair a sticky clump. Y'shtola held her arms out to her to receive her, and oh, the wonders of her form, of who she was, what she was. Wiry, strong Elezen muscles like cables giving an exaggeration to her movements. That tired but happy smile that graced her face, a genuine expression of real triumph. A kindness that never left her eyes.

She crouched for Y'shtola, and Y'shtola kissed her deeply, enjoying the closeness. The heat of a body recently pushed so hard. The smells, of sweat, of Zoissette's humanity, the faint oil for her armor and leathers, the tinge of expended aether, it was all a delightfully heady musk that filled Y'shtola's nose and she breathed it in deep. It was all a reminder of how alive they both were.

She broke the kiss, and held Zoissette's face in her hands. "I shall enjoy acting as your squire, if you've no more obligations for the day requiring your attentions and arms?" she said quietly.

"Let me give the crowd what they want, and I'll be along in just a few minutes," said Zoissette.

Y'shtola nodded, and took a step back as Zoissette stood up, allowing her some space. As she did so, a wave of people who had been waiting flowed in, cheerfully chattering at her, clapping her shoulders, congratulating her on the bout.

Lyse came up to Y'shtola's side, and nudged her in the ribs.

"Cheeky," she said, cheerfully.

Y'shtola just winked at her and shrugged.

It was just over a bell later when they were in Zoissette's room. The bout area had been cleaned up, last exchanges had, well wishes and cheerful taunts about next time exchanged, and now it was just the two of them.

Zoissette stood still, arms at her sides, relaxed, as Y'shtola worked around her. Of course, Zoissette had spellwork at her disposal that allowed her to summon and dismiss sets of her gear from void space at a moment's notice while in the field. What was suited to mining was not suited to the duty of a knight was not particularly well suited to scholarly work, and she could adjust to fit the situation quickly. However, it would still need to be put on in the first place, and when she did not think there would be a need for such immediate shifting, she liked to remove her gear for storage. It still needed taken care of, after all, and that could not be done easily while it was being worn. Enchantments would need to be given additional aether, materia shined and resoldered periodically, metal polished and leather oiled.

It was the kind of work she could not do alone. And while Y'shtola may not have been a true squire, she knew what needed to be done, and over the course of their time together had grown quite accustomed to it.

And she found that she rather enjoyed these moments of tending to her knight. Perhaps it was the intimacy of it, of being in close proximity to one another. Of deft fingers feeling the warmth of a body recently exercised as she undid clasps and unwound ties.

"Arm up," she said, and Zoissette lifted her arm, responding immediately. Maybe it was the delight in having the knight pliable and obedient to her words. Zoissette was powerful, that was not in question, and that power now answered to her word, to her commands. Zoissette trusted her wholly, and obeyed without hesitation, and that was its own delight.

Maybe it was seeing Zoissette uniquely vulnerable, as layers of armor were removed and set aside, revealing more and more of the woman beneath them. Literal armor being removed, but also a kind of emotional nakedness. Y'shtola got to see Zoissette how few would, her skin streaked with dirty and blood, her gambeson stained with sweat, her hair clumped in a thick matted cord.

She was rarely so beautiful.

At last, Zoissette was nude, armor neatly stacked to one side, underclothing in a basket ready for laundry. A task for later. Right now, it was the knight that needed tending to, and Y'shtola would tend to her. She stripped down herself, and soon, the two were in the shower, Zoissette dutifully standing there while Y'shtola washed her clean of the detritus of the match.

This was a blessing. Zoissette did not need much healing magicks after a friendly bout, and Y'shtola was able to apply them without having to feel the twinges and pangs that came with tending deep wounds and applying stitches. Zoissette was hurt- neither she nor Klynt played gently- but this work was that of rubbing knots out, conjurey seeing to small cuts and abrasions, the flat of a palm against a muscle as aether flowed and humors set to rights. Minor works. Pleasurable, under these circumstances. And Zoissette made such delightful little murring noises as Y'shtola worked on her, as fingers untangled knots in her hair, as hands played over curves, partly healing, partly something more.

Too often, more often than Y'shtola cared for, Zoissette would be in a state after a fight, tired and bedraggled, barely keeping herself on her feet while she was tended to. But a good fight, a clean fight, a solid practice match, a joyful bout, these were different. Fighting for the star was one thing. Fighting for the challenge of it was quite another, and she found Zoissette often invigorated after such contest. Her body well exercised, her blood made to soar and pump heatedly, her mind working at solving the puzzle of her opponent. It tended to put her in a good mood, and Y'shtola now tested that mood as the water was turned off, pressing her body against Zoissette's back, a hand reaching around and forward to play against her stomach - ah, such muscle! - and tease downwards.

Zoissette responded favorably, turning to face Y'shtola, a smile on her face, hands reaching to explore Y'shtola.

Y'shtola hooked a hand on Zoissette's shoulder and pulled her down towards her. "Come here," she said, "That I may find my purchase upon you."

Their bodies pressed together hotly, their tongues eager between their lips, their passion cleaving them as one. It was now time for an altogether different sort of challenge, a contest as to what pleasures their bodies would endure for as long as they wished them, as they left the bathroom and retired to their shared bed.

#ffxivwrite2024 #final fantasy xiv #zoissette vauban #y'shtola rhul #contest #202409-15 #biot writes

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nekhcore · 24 days ago

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a reunion in west coerthas -- one-shot fic. 5k words.

crucial, load-bearing moment for wolcred: misha and thancred Talk for the first time since the banquet and things get Serious.

um. warning for i guess. pathetic homoeroticism. and also there's a fistfight in there. mentions of blood. but i'm baby so there's no particularly graphic descriptions.

wrote this because it was supposed to be like nearly 20 pages across 3 comics but that was absurd. anyways, fic under the cut but you can read it on ao3 instead if you'd like.

The frigid highlands of Coerthas were a far cry from the lush verdure they had been before the Calamity. One could scarce believe that it had been only five years since. The people of Ishgard could still remember the days before the fall. Though their city-states weren’t far apart, Misha never ventured out of the Shroud until adulthood, so the biting cold was all he knew these lands by.

Snow crunched under his boots as he walked. Although he was the one more familiar with these lands, he allowed Thancred to walk ahead of him. The hyur set their pace without so much as a word shared between them. It wasn’t necessary. He knew that wherever he went, Misha would follow. As he followed them all.

The two men kept their steps light and their voices quiet. There was no need to disturb the wildlife, and they hadn’t come out here to fight beasts. Misha soon found that this was one of Thancred’s many skills that he was not able to match. His own steps were clumsy and loud compared to the near-silent way the rogue passed over the snow.

They came to an opening in the field, a clear patch of snow and ice with nothing but the towering visage of Haldrath watching over it.

“This is as good a place as any,” Thancred said, surveying the area. “Agreed?”

Misha looked up at the first Azure Dragoon, with his frozen lance held proudly at his side. The Gae Bolg. The selfsame lance that Estinien wielded. Often there was someone here to maintain the statue, but today they seemed to be absent. All the better. Misha could barely figure out how he was going to talk to Thancred alone. He couldn’t bear having an audience.

“It’s fine,” the viera said, turning away from the statue before it could awaken something else inside him.

An uncomfortable silence hung over the two men. They’d come out here for some fresh air, but that was just a pretense and they both knew it. It had been months since they last saw each other, and they’d hardly parted well. There was still so much left unsaid between them, and the circumstances upon their return to Ishgard were hardly favorable for the kind of conversation that needed to be had. It was a relief that Aymeric was well. Thancred’s contribution to the investigation was invaluable. It was to no one’s surprise that a Limsan street rat would know how to handle the Brume. Misha only wished that things were quieter. That he could experience something without moving right on to the next thing.

Well, it was quiet now. He’d nearly smothered Thancred once he mentioned returning to the Rising Stones. He couldn’t leave yet. Not when Misha only just got him back. Not before he’d gotten the chance to wrestle these nascent feelings into submission. It was a good thing the rogue was of the same mind.

“You trained here in Coerthas, is that right?” Thancred asked, and it took every bit of Misha’s restraint not to attack him for it.

“That’s in the past,” Misha said through gritted teeth, biting back a curse on Alphinaud’s name.

It wasn’t that Misha disliked Alphinaud—quite the opposite, really. He was fond of him. Even after everything, even after the Braves, Misha still trusted the boy. Thought of him as family, as he did all the scions. But though he had sworn Alphinaud to silence long before the bloody banquet, the elezen youth still couldn’t stop himself from mentioning the one thing he was never supposed to speak of.

“Come now, it wasn’t that long ago,” Thancred said, watching Misha with a level gaze. “You were a great lancer and a better dragoon, I’m sure. I can’t imagine why you’d give it away.”

Misha’s ear twitched in annoyance as he turned his back to Thancred. He’d wanted to see him so badly, had yearned for this moment for weeks, but if this was how he was going to be… they should have left him in Dravania. Lancing was the last thing he wanted to think about, much less talk about. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he’d spent all that time traveling beside Estinien, who’d insisted on carrying the Eye of Nidhogg on his person at all times. Misha had suffered enough.

Thancred stepped closer. “Pray forgive me for being so forward,” he said, not sounding apologetic at all, “but you can imagine my shock at finding out about all this now.”

Misha whirled around. “You were never supposed to find out,” he said, throwing his hands out in exasperation. “None of you had to know!”

“I beg to differ. That you had received the power of a great wyrm and met with Ishgard’s Azure Dragoon would have been very helpful to know. Especially when we were petitioning the city-states.”

Misha suddenly took great interest in the hardened ice below his feet. “My days as dragoon were over by then.” The Warrior of Light wrung his hands. “I haven’t touched a lance since Titan.”

Thancred gave no quarter. “You left for Coerthas long before Titan. You had plenty of time to say something.”

“That’s…”

“These aren’t the kind of things you should be keeping from us.”

“Who was I supposed to tell? You?”

“Yes! Even if not me, any one of the scions should have—”

“Should we discuss Lahabrea then, since you’re so keen on bringing up the past?” Misha snapped with a vitriol in his voice that he barely recognized. “Lest you forget why things ocurred as they did.”

Thancred threw his hands up in surrender. “Easy,” he said lightly, as a strained smile graced his lips. “You’ve made your point.”

Once again they sat in silence, though this one was more tense than awkward. Misha kept his gaze averted. He didn’t know where that came from. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to say. He had never been much for the Twelve—and the things he’d experienced until now made that hard to change—but he could’ve sworn someone was tormenting him like this on purpose.

No, it was Thancred’s own fault for bringing it up. They’d gone this long not talking about it. What made him think that things would change now?

“Have you been keeping up with your hand-to-hand?” Thancred asked, breaking their silence and taking a cautious step closer. “Or were those sparring sessions only for me?”

They had been.

As were many other things, as Misha had come to realize in his absence.

“I’m an archer,” he said, his voice softer now. He glanced at Thancred over his shoulder. “I don’t need it.”

“Is that so?” Thancred unsheathed one of his daggers and made a show of twirling it around his fingers. Misha’s eyes followed its every arc as if in a trance. “I couldn’t help but notice you don’t carry a blade anymore.” The dagger danced between the rogue’s hands. “What do you plan to do when you get cornered?” He sheathed the blade and plucked a shaft from Misha’s quiver, admiring its sharp edge. “Will you stab them with an arrow?”

The viera didn’t have time to react before his own arrowhead was pressed against his throat, held firm in Thancred’s hand. He held the hyur’s confident gaze and wished that he could wipe that self-assured smirk off his face. This could have never happened to him if he was still—

Misha pulled the arrow out of his hands. “You make a fair point.”

Thancred relinquished his new weapon readily and slipped back into a mischievous grin. “It’ll be just like old times.”

They shed their weapons against Haldrath’s base. Misha gingerly laid his bowharp and quiver against the stone, hoping their very presence wouldn’t insult the first Azure Dragoon’s memory. Thancred removed his belts along with his blades and gave the viera a wink when he caught him staring. It struck a pang in his chest and set his tail wagging.

Thancred was teasing him. Misha knew this to be true. He brushed a hand against the viera’s back as he walked past, right above the base of his tail. His carefree swagger called to mind those days outside Mor Dhona, when sparring was an excuse to get on top of each other with an audience. He watched as Misha put his fists up and said, “Your form has gotten worse.”

“Coming from you.”

Misha couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Thancred laugh. It must have been at the banquet. No, before they all made for Ul’dah. They’d been alone in his room at the Rising Stones, joking about some of the newer recruits from the Braves. He’d laughed against Misha’s lips before they parted, and Misha had spent the nights after wishing that he’d paid more attention. That he’d better committed that sound to memory.

He would remember this one. He hoped he wouldn’t have to.

The worst part was that Thancred was right. Misha’s form had gotten worse. In all the confusion since escaping Ul’dah, he’d neglected to pay any attention to his skills in close combat, and the rust was clear. All this time he’d been fighting dragons on the ground and cloudkin in the Sea of Clouds—the few times he’d fought more grounded foes, his arrows dispatched their targets on the first shot.

He was the Warrior of Light. Well-sung bard, eikon-slayer, the arrow that pierced the heavens. Nobody expected him in a fistfight.

It showed, clearly. Thancred held his palms up for Misha, and had something to say about every punch thrown. Your fist is too tight. Your fist is too loose. Your angle is all wrong. Straighten up. Bend here. Arc this way. You’re too low. With every correction, Thancred made sure to let his fingertips linger too long against Misha’s skin.

“That’s right,” he said. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as Misha quickened his pace. “Keep your arm straight.”

Though he’d been trying to keep his mind off of it, Misha’s mind wandered to Estinien. That pathetic excuse for a man would be overjoyed to hear that Misha’s secret had gotten out. Just thinking of the elezen’s face stoked the dormant fires of rage within him, and he poured that energy into his fists.

“There you go,” Thancred cooed, not hiding his pleasure one bit. He’d always gotten worked up over a good fight. “Good.”

It was cathartic—letting it out. Even if it wasn’t Thancred’s face he wanted to be looking at for this. He’d missed this. These little moments between them with nobody else around. He’d missed being this close to him. He’d missed not feeling like he had to brace for another goodbye. There were so, so many of them as of late.

His fist collided with Thancred’s jaw. The hyur froze with his head turned, unable to process what had just happened to him. By the time he turned back to face the Warrior of Light, there was another punch coming.

“Misha?” he asked, rubbing his face where he was struck. He received no answer—only another punch thrown, one that he caught in the palm of his hand.

Misha reeled at the first blow Thancred returned in kind, but he was undeterred. He descended on the rogue with new fury, and they traded blows on the ice. They advanced further and further away from Haldrath’s shadow, with ragged breaths and blood on their lips. His height gave the viera no advantage over a man like Thancred, who knew the Warrior of Light like the back of his hand and was well versed on turning the odds in his favor. All it took was one calculated step and a shove to knock Misha off his feet and into the snow.

Thancred pinned him to the ground with his arms behind his back, holding his wrists together tightly. “Why don’t you tell me,” he said, trying to steady his breathing, “just what it is you think you’re doing?”

For all his struggling, Misha couldn’t break free. Another thing that he’d forgotten with time apart—in this sense, him and Thancred were closely matched. Though who was the stronger of the two was still undecided.

It infuriated him.

“Get off me,” Misha all but snarled, throwing all his weight to knock the rogue off him. His grip slipped for just a moment, and the viera overtook him.

Even with Misha straddled over his torso on the ice with his fist raised, Thancred didn’t look afraid at all. He threw his hands up in defense and took Misha’s last blow in stride, spitting red onto the white snow. He wiped the blood off his upper lip and said, “Trying to kill me?”

“I thought you were dead!”

There was only the sound of the wind and their labored breathing to fill the silence that followed Misha’s outburst. Neither of them dared to speak, and his words hung heavy over them.

Ah. That was it, wasn’t it? What this was really about.

“I’ve spent this whole time worried sick about you,” Misha said, the words pouring out before he could stop them, “and you think that you can walk back in and act like nothing’s changed? You think you have the right to ask anything of me?”

Haldrath’s visage towered solemnly over them as snow dusted his weary shoulders. Thancred looked up at the Warrior of Light with one wide eye, with almost nothing to say for once in his life.

“You came to me first,” he said, dumbfounded.

“Of course I did!” Misha snapped. “The last time I saw you, I heard the tunnel collapse on you. Of course I’d embrace someone I thought died months ago! Do you have any idea what that was like for me? What I’ve been through since?”

Thancred’s stare hardened. “I did what was necessary to ensure—”

“I don’t give a damn that you did it for her! We all did!” Misha’s voice echoed across the vast open space. “But I trusted you!”

Their pursuers had been gaining on them, and he and Y’shtola insisted on staying behind to give them a chance. At the time, Misha hadn’t understood. Hadn’t understood why they were trying to split up. He hadn’t realized yet what Minfilia already knew: that they were all willing and ready to do what it takes to ensure that she—and thus, their cause—would survive.

“I trusted you and you lied to me,” Misha said, wrapping his fingers around the collar of Thancred’s shirt.

What had he said?

Go with her. We’ll meet again soon.

Spoken with a fake smile that betrayed his true intentions. His mind was made up. He’d never planned to come out of that aqueduct in the first place. But it was an order, and if there was anything Misha knew how to do it was follow orders.

“You lied to my face, you all left me behind and I…”

His anger was fading, with a crushing loneliness taking its place. That was the worst part, wasn’t it? Misha couldn’t find it in himself to stay mad. He couldn’t bring himself to hate the Scions for leaving him to bear this burden alone. He knew that if it had been him in any of their places, he would have done the same thing. He would have done it in a heartbeat. For Minfilia, he was just as ready to give everything as any of the rest of them were.

And she’d left him behind as well.

“I’m so, so glad you’re safe,” he said through tears, and buried his face in Thancred’s shoulder where the hyur wouldn’t be able to see him cry.

There were no jokes. No witty comebacks or clever quips. Only the slow rise and fall of Thancred’s chest to let Misha know that he was still breathing. Though he could feel the snow falling on his ears, he couldn’t move. He didn’t want to. This was the closest they’d been to each other since that day, and he breathed deep of the scent to make himself remember. Thancred laid still beneath him as the wetness of melting snow seeped into their clothes.

It was the rogue who made the first move, cautiously snaking an arm around Misha’s waist. Testing the waters. When he found no resistance, Thancred pulled the Warrior of Light tight against his body and stroked his hair until the shuddering stopped and the tears dried against his skin.

When he could no longer stand the feeling of snowfall on his tail, Misha pushed himself up and wiped away what remained of his tears with a sniffle. But his gloves were stained with blood, and he only smeared it on his cheek. He allowed Thancred the space to sit up, but only just enough, lest he tried to escape.

The rogue rubbed his chin and hissed in pain. “You did a number on me…”

The adornments on Misha’s gloves had left cuts in their wake, and his lip was split open. Blood smeared over his chin was still wet. “That’ll bruise,” he said, slipping his fingers under his blindfold with a chuckle.

Misha wasn’t sure what it was. He hadn’t been sure for weeks. Sitting there, knowing that he must look as terrible as the man under him did, with his heart racing so quickly it might fly out of his chest, something clicked into place. About what he’d come here for. What he’d wanted. What he’d been waiting this whole time for.

Thancred froze when Misha’s hands cradled his face and faltered when their lips met. Misha didn’t know whose blood it was that he tasted on his tongue. It didn’t make a difference. All that mattered was that the rogue had responded in kind. He slid his arms around Thancred’s neck and tangled fingers in his hair. He pulled him closer until he couldn’t breathe anymore, and they wrenched apart and stared at each other with wide eyes and dilated pupils.

Wind whistled through Haldrath’s cape.

Misha smothered Thancred under the dragoon’s shadow, relishing in the way their mouths seemed to fit together perfectly. His missing piece found. Like he’d never been away. He dragged his fangs against the cracked flesh of his lips, and Thancred wrapped his hands in the folds and scarves of Misha’s garb. Anything to get closer.

“Misha,” he said, reluctantly pulling away.

The viera shook the snow off his ears. “I know.”

With great effort and restraint, they got to their feet and reclaimed their shed weapons. They would need to make haste if they were to avoid getting stranded out in the coming storm. Thancred stumbled and Misha took him under arm, supporting his weight before the rogue could ask for it. As they started back towards Falcon’s Nest, the Warrior of Light spared one last look at the first Azure Dragoon and bid him a silent farewell.

The knights saw them return from far away. The saviour of Ishgard was met by a handful of men, all armed and ready to defend the fort from an unseen enemy. Misha didn’t have the heart or the energy to tell them it was a spat between comrades. When he asked Ser Redwald for a place to lick their wounds, away from prying eyes, the commander was quick to provide—if a bit wary of the circumstances. Despite all Misha’s insistences that there was nothing yet to come, the hyur still looked out into the wastes with doubt.

One of the smaller halls had nearly fallen into disuse in the absence of most of its troop, so they insisted it wasn’t any trouble to vacate it for the night. The ease with which they acquiesced to his whims was one of the few things that Misha enjoyed about using his title. It was a shame that the room was barely any warmer than the wilderness outside. The fire in the hearth could only spread its warmth so far, and their wet clothes bore the chill deep into their bones.

At his request, they’d brought him a handful of medical supplies and promised not to return until daylight. When Misha returned to set the basket upon a stool, Thancred was already stripping out of his shirt and hanging it by the hearth. The sight of him knocked all the air out of his lungs. He could vividly remember dragging his nails against the muscles in Thancred’s back in the days before. A shudder and a sigh under his lips on the nape of his neck. In spite of his covered eye, it was still the same fond gaze that Misha had received countless times at the Rising Stones. The sliver of the archon mark visible over his shoulder sent the viera’s thoughts into a frenzy.

He could do it. All he had to do was approach.

They stared each other down until one of them folded. In the end, Misha lacked the nerve—having spent it all out in the wastes—and put himself to the arduous task of undoing his wraps and disrobing instead.

Though they agreed that they had other priorities, it was clear to them both that they did not respect them. There was no reason for Thancred to place his hand upon Misha’s thigh so intentionally, especially not as the viera was trying to sit him down to clean his wounds, but he refused to move it. Thancred wiped the blood off Misha’s face with a wet rag, and Misha sang under his breath as he returned the favor with stinging alcohol. He doubted the music would work as well without the aether and the harp, but it couldn’t hurt to try. It was familiar, at the very least. A small comfort among the growing uncertainty of Ishgard.

He held Thancred’s chin with his fingers, turning the rogue’s face up to check for anything he’d missed and leaning in close to better examine his stubbled jaw. Their noses brushed against each other, and Thancred pulled him in for another kiss before they had the chance to second-guess it.

They were alone now, properly, and fell into step. Wandering hands explored new scars and settled on old, familiar curves. Misha ran his fingers down the nape of Thancred’s neck and traced the dented curve of his ear. Thancred’s palm rested over the darkened skin of Misha’s side, hesitating over the jagged edges of the scar—as was his wont. Teeth scraped against cracked lips and calloused fingertips pulled against loose skin. When the rogue laid him down on the cot, Misha nearly forgot that they weren’t back in the Rising Stones.

The viera slipped his fingers under Thancred’s choker and dug his nails into the inked skin of his archon mark, fulfilling the urge he’d been fighting since they first saw each other at Loth ast Gnath. He’d waited so long just for the chance to taste this man again, and he intended to savor it for as long as he could. Nothing brought him greater satisfaction than hearing Thancred sigh in delight against his lips and press his fingers into his waist. They strained to get closer, discarding what little clothing remained between them. Pawing at each other like desperate youths with ravenous appetites, trailing kisses down their necks and tangling fingers in each other’s hair.

In the back of his mind Misha was glad he’d had the foresight to demand their privacy, but they were so engrossed in each other that they might not have noticed an intrusion at all.

x x x

The Coerthas cold was ruthless, and the main culprit behind Misha waking up with his limbs entangled with Thancred’s. There was another cause—that he enjoyed being there—but that was far less pressing than the chill under his skin. He hoped their clothes had dried out overnight, or their return to Ishgard would prove less than pleasant.

The only light came from the hearth and a small window on the other side of the hall, but its rays didn’t quite make it to their borrowed cot. In the dim light and morning quiet, Misha found himself staring at Thancred’s sleeping face. He seemed… peaceful. For once. From the moment they found him until now, he’d been doing something. Infiltrating Loth ast Gnath. Fighting off the Warriors of Darkness. Investigating Aymeric’s assailants. If Misha hadn’t intercepted him, he might have been halfway to Mor Dhona by now. Instead he was here, at rest.

Misha couldn’t feel aether as accurately as Y’shtola did. He knew each of the scions by touch, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was that made each of them feel distinct. He only knew them by instinct. Even so, her words echoed in his mind. Thancred’s aether was distinctly his, but it was still wrong. Something had changed.

Would he have walked all the way to the Rising Stones? Would he have insisted on going alone so none of them could question why he wouldn’t use an aetheryte he had long since been attuned to?

Although Misha hadn’t deigned to breach the topic with her, he knew by now that Y’shtola had not come back entirely intact either. The magic she’d casted had nearly set her adrift in the lifestream for eternity. It had nearly transported Thancred directly inside the rock of Sohm Al. What more had it taken from them?

The viera’s fingers hovered above the fabric. Gingerly, he lifted the corner.

“Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?” Thancred said, his hand wrapped tight around Misha’s wrist.

In the split-second before he was caught, Misha saw a darkened bruise forming on the rogue’s cheek. “I didn’t think you were awake.”

When Thancred saw the look on Misha’s face, his gaze softened. He brought the viera’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss against his knuckles. “Light sleeper.”

The fluttering in his chest wasn’t enough to distract Misha from the sinking feeling in his stomach. It would be clear to the others that something had happened between them. It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have, especially not with Alphinaud. The boy was a child still. And Tataru… she was a smart girl. She would know.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Thancred laughed and brushed the hair out of Misha’s face. “Have you seen yourself? I’d say we’re even.”

Misha remained unconvinced and buried his face in the crook of Thancred’s neck.

“I meant it,” he murmured. “I was happy to see you. I still am.”

Thancred offered another kiss into the palm of his hand. “The feeling is mutual.”

“I thought I’d never see you again. I’m not ready to say goodbye. Not another.”

“You won’t have to,” Thancred said, reaching around to scratch the base of Misha’s ears. The viera shivered and leaned into it. He still remembered that, even after all this time? “I’m not going anywhere.”

Thancred might have been trying to distract him, though whether it was to ease Misha’s fears or avoid the conversation entirely was not so clear. Misha, for one, was tired of running. He’d spent the last few months running, both from their adversaries and his own feelings. It had taken seeing Thancred again to let everything catch up to him. He wasn’t going to let it get the better of him again.

“Will you make me a promise?”

Thancred pulled back with an insufferable smirk. “For the Warrior of Light? Anything.”

Most importantly, he wasn’t going to let himself mirror whatever it was that Sanson and Guydelot had forced him to bear witness to. He could be better than that. He would be.

“Promise me you’ll stay.”

Thancred faltered for the briefest of moments, but it didn’t escape notice. So when the rogue regained his composure and opened his grinning mouth, Misha cut him off before he got so much as a word out.

“Stop. Don’t feed me your bullshit,” he said, taking Thancred’s face in both hands and challenging him with a steely glare. “Say it and mean it this time.”

But the hyur was so taken aback by this sudden change in attitude, this newfound insistence, that he couldn’t respond. Misha could feel his heart racing. Watched him swallow nervously.

“I need you to stay, Thancred. If not for the other scions, then for me.”

The words sounded wrong as soon as he said them, and it felt like the rogue could tell. Thancred stared at him, dumbstruck by the admission.

“No, that’s not it either.” Misha covered his face and made himself start over. It wasn’t that noble. It was simpler than that. It was selfish. He looked up at Thancred through his fingers and said, “I want you to stay. With me.”

Perhaps it was too soon. Perhaps it was a bit much to start off with. Thancred had only just reunited with them, after all. But after everything they’d been through together, all those months they spent after Gaius’ defeat playing coy and warming each other’s beds like there was nothing of any greater importance between them, Misha would have rather come off too strong than make himself unclear. He was serious this time. He should have been sooner.

Thancred held Misha’s face in his hands. Pulled the viera close enough for their foreheads to touch and stared in his eyes. When he couldn’t bear it anymore, Thancred left a kiss between his eyebrows and brought him to his chest, holding him firmly in place.

After an eternity in silent embrace, Thancred said, “I’ll stay.”

Misha held back a sigh of relief. It irked him not to see the rogue’s face, but this was in earnest. He could tell from the tone in his voice. From the tremble of his hands on his back. “Don’t leave me behind again.”

“I won’t. I swear it. I’ll stay. I’ll be right here at your side.”

“You swear it?”

Thancred held Misha as tightly as he could. “I swear it.”

That was good enough for him. It didn’t matter if he had the right words, or if the promise sounded as beautiful as Misha knew Thancred was capable of making it sound. All that mattered was that they knew where they stood, and that it was true. Many things he did and said were untrue. Misha wouldn’t stand to be one of them.

Judging from the way he was holding him, perhaps Thancred felt the same.

“Thancred,” he said, gently. Sounding out his name like a newly opened gift. “Look at me.”

It took far longer than it should have, but the hyur released his desperate grip on Misha and allowed the Warrior of Light to look him in the eye. The fatigue of his time away was plain to see on his face. Above all else, though, he held Misha’s stare with a determination that quieted all his other doubts.

Misha considered saying something else. Considered that maybe there was more to be addressed between them. But he became aware again of where they were, and the state of undress that they were in, and what they had done the night before, and told himself that some things could wait until they made it back to Ishgard. He pulled Thancred into one last kiss and devised a new moment in time that was just for the two of them.

#nekh is writing #nekh plays ffxiv #ffxiv #art #nekh draws #ffxiv writing #fanfiction #ffxiv fanfiction #thancred waters #wolcred #misha llied #ffxiv wol #i can't believe im a fanfiction guy now #<- says guy who wrote and illustrated 50 pages worth of fancomic #heavensward spoilers #mishacred

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autumnslance · 8 months ago

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send LOST for a scene from my muse's past in which they felt lost, literally or figuratively {Zaine}

He was supposed to protect her.

Zaine's axe and armor, Evienne's spells and social acumen. They were a matched set of opposites, a team that had traversed the realm for months now. That's how it worked.

On reflection, he really hadn't known her that long; less than a year. Yet everything they had gone through made it feel much longer, or at least more intense. They had shared their histories, their hopes, more than a few secrets.

Never a bed, though; as much as he'd come to love her, it was not in that way. And she was still mourning the loss of her spouse, besides. So fierce friends and comrades they were.

...They had been.

Zaine was going to tear Gaius van Baelsar into pieces.

"Hey," Yda said, wandering over to sit with him.

"Hey," he replied, taking a deep breath and sitting up. "You doing all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. How--"

"How about Papalymo? And Thancred?"

She frowned. "They're all right, Zaine. Everyone is."

Not everyone.

Before he could say more, she stuck her finger against his lips. "How are you?" she demanded to know, glimpses of her blue eyes through the mask showing her own sadness and resolve. She removed her finger.

Zaine slumped. "I keep feeling like I did everything wrong. Missed something, forgot something. If I'd been a little more on guard--and I know, I know that's not how it works, I know you all rushed cuz you only found out too late, but I--" He rested his head in his hands, clutching his hair.

"I feel like 'it's not your fault' won't help, huh?"

He huffed out a bitter laugh. "No." They were silent for a moment. "I know he targeted her as a caster, as a threat. Even if I had been in her place, even if I had been on guard. And I know...Evienne chose this, same as the rest of us, but it...Gods, this hurts."

"Of course it does," Yda replied softly. "It will for a long while."

He sat back now, leaning on the wall behind him, Yda watching. "If I knew anything of Eorzean etiquette as a boy, I forgot it. Evienne, though...she had impeccable manners. And took it upon herself to teach me better. My rough soldier ways grated on her lady's sensibilities." He smiled thinly. "I don't think I'd have made half as good an impression on all those people without her. And nevermind how many of her own heroics have been overlooked. It's not fair."

"A lot of things aren't," Yda said. "Minfilia's speaking to her sister, and her son. He's so little."

"Yeah," Zaine said. "Not much older than my sister was, when we lost our father. This kid's lost both his parents now and I don't...I feel like I should say something, but what? 'I was your mum's partner but failed to protect her from a Garlean bullet'?"

"Zaine, you can't say that."

"No, of course not, I just," he pinched his nose, trying to stay the renewed feeling of prickling heat in his eyes, threatening another deluge. "I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. She would know; that's what she was good at! It's all her clever words and maneuvering that's made me seem a hero; people think I know what I'm doing, but I don't. And there's still so much happening, no time to sit here and wallow, but Sisters help me, I don't know how I'm going to do it without her!"

The tears fell despite his attempts; guilt and shame as much as grief pouring from him. Yda was silent, simply holding his hand, squeezing tightly, a reminder he had more friends and allies, more people to help, to rely on.

Just not his companion.

((As the 1.0 WoL, Zaine traveled around with a Path Companion, who I decided was a prim & proper elezen conjurer named Evienne. There is, however, a famous scene where Gaius shoots the Path Companion, and then fights Thancred, Y'shtola, Papalymo, and Yda. In Zaine's continuity, his Path Companion dies from the injuries inflicted in that incident.))

#final fantasy xiv #Lyn Writing #1.0 #Legacy #Backstory #Path of the Twelve #Path Companion #Yda Hext #Zaine Striker #Grief

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warlordfelwinter · 8 months ago

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in from the cold

[read on ao3]

~2k, wol/g'raha. endwalker spoilers. it's in from the cold. iykyk.

G'raha lowered his staff, his exhale crystallizing in the frigid air. He relaxed as he surveyed what had been a chaotic battlefield a moment ago. The alliance soldiers had managed to subdue the newly tempered Garleans and were in the process of securing them. It would be a long process to cure them all and G'raha couldn't help but wonder if it was worth it to start while the cause of this tempering was still alive.

He looked around for Fiver, suspecting the Warrior of Light would want to leave immediately to take care of the primal. As he turned, casting his gaze around the camp, he couldn't see Fiver anywhere.

"Fiver?" G'raha called, starting to walk slowly in the direction he thought he remembered Fiver heading when the fighting had started. He had lost track of him in all the chaos. "Fiver!" he called again, tail twitching as concern started to settle in his chest. He knew Fiver was more than a match for a few tempered soldiers and logically he doubted the viera had been injured, but where was he?

He spotted Alphinaud and Alisaie, who looked over as they heard his shout, and he watched them look around as well. Concern settled onto Alphinaud's face as he came to the same realization G'raha had—that he hadn't seen Fiver since the fighting had started.

"Fiver!" Alisaie shouted, heading off in a different direction than G'raha. Her call got Thancred's attention and soon enough all of the Scions were searching Camp Broken Glass, looking for any trace of their Warrior of Light.

G'raha's fear, as he searched, wasn't that Fiver was hurt or dying somewhere. It was that Fiver had decided to go after the primal on his own. Certainly he had fought similar threats alone before, but he didn't need to anymore now that the rest of them had warding scales. G'raha had to wonder if Fiver had fully realized that, or if he didn't want to put anyone else at risk. Regardless, he would have some sharp words for the viera whenever they found him.

As he rounded one of the buildings in the camp, something in the snow caught his eye. He trotted ahead, seeing a glint of metal already starting to be covered by falling flakes. G'raha's heart dropped as he got close, a frigid weight into his stomach.

It was a bow.

He stood, frozen, staring down at the bow. It was one he would know anywhere. Elegant and beautiful, belying its devastating power, crafted of wood and metal, doubling as a harp. Lovingly and fastidiously maintained by its wielder.

G'raha slowly crouched, almost afraid to touch the bow as if that would make it real. He grabbed it and picked it up, brushing the snow off. He felt sick. Fiver's bow. His instrument, his most prized possession. He went nowhere without it.

G'raha lifted his head, staring desperately around. There was no sign of Fiver, no trail to follow, no evidence of what had happened. It was as if he had just disappeared into thin air. And wherever he had gone, he was unarmed.

Fiver dragged himself through the snow, every ragged breath like shards of glass in unfamiliar lungs. He could taste blood, staining unfamiliar teeth and trickling from unfamiliar lips. Every part of this body screamed in protest as he forced it to move. He knew bones were shattered, he knew he was losing blood, he could almost feel it pooling in organs it shouldn't be. This body wouldn't last long but he had to make it last long enough.

He dragged himself, arm by painful arm, until he could crawl, until he could stumble. He would walk until he fell and then he would drag himself again. Drag, crawl, stumble, fall. Over and over. Again and again. His mind singularly focused on getting back to Camp Broken Glass.

Every time his eyes closed, he could only see the camp. He could see blood staining the snow, twisted and broken bodies. He could see his friends, torn apart by his own hands, taken by surprise. They wouldn't have time. Once they realized what was happening they wouldn't have time to react. And he knew they wouldn't stand a chance. Not against him.

So he forced himself to keep going as this stolen body fell apart around him. He had to keep going. He had to keep going.

G'raha paced, trying to remain calm. It was proving a difficult task. It had been hours and there was still no sign of Fiver. They had no way to track him, no way to know where he'd gone. Y'shtola had managed to find a faint trace of his aether and follow it to where his bow had been, but then it vanished. Everything seemed to imply Fiver had just disappeared and that terrified G'raha.

Movement caught his attention in the corner of his eye. He stopped and lifted his head, seeing a distant figure walking toward the camp. Even at such a distance, G'raha recognized him instantly and his heart leapt.

"Fiver!" he gasped, and took off running. Alisaie followed him closely, too quickly for either of them to hear Y'shtola's uncertainty.

As they neared, Fiver looked up and stopped walking.

"Where have you been?" Alisaie demanded. "We've been worried sick!"

G'raha smiled, looking Fiver over, relieved to see he was uninjured. "Now, now, all's well that ends well," he said. "Are you all right?"

Fiver looked at him, tilting his head just slightly. He smiled, but there was something wrong about it. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Are you all right?" Alisaie asked.

Fiver glanced at her and his smile changed, widening slightly as his eyes narrowed in a strange smirk. It looked wrong and G'raha tensed. Fiver's eyes were cold. Threatening.

"...who are you?" G'raha asked, lowly.

Fiver's expression didn't change as black and red energy started to sublimate from him. A voidsent wraith manifested above him, rearing back a wickedly sharp scythe. G'raha's instincts screamed at him to move but he couldn't, frozen in place by confusion and fear.

As the voidsent swung its scythe down toward them, something slammed through it, blocking the swing and dispersing the wraith. Fiver turned, his smile vanishing into mild annoyance. G'raha glanced the other direction, seeing a Garlean military blade embedded in the snow, and then followed Fiver's gaze.

A single Imperial soldier stood, unsteady and wavering, clearly having just thrown the weapon.

"Enough, Zenos!" the soldier shouted, his voice rough, pained, furious. His voice was entirely unfamiliar, but G'raha stared at him with a cold certainty that he knew exactly who was in that body. The soldier sprinted at Fiver, who smiled again, turning to face him as he started to summon that voidsent avatar once more.

The Imperial slammed bodily into the viera, flinging him back into the snow. The dark energy faded as Fiver hit the ground. The soldier fell to his knees, gripping his head and writhing, an agonized scream ripping its way from his throat. He collapsed, prone, and stopped moving.

Fiver—Zenos got back to his feet, staring down at the unmoving Imperial, looking almost disappointed. A dark rift opened in the air above them all and Fandaniel appeared, spreading his arms as if welcoming applause.

"Sadly that is all the time we have for today! The effect has run its course and back to your own bodies you must go."

He drifted to the ground as the rest of the Scions caught up to G'raha and Alisaie, everyone drawing weapons to train on the Ascian. Fandaniel flashed a warning glance at Thancred as he stepped close, gunblade at the ready. G'raha laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. He didn't know precisely what Fandaniel had done with Fiver's soul and until it was safely back in his body he didn't want to risk angering the Ascian.

"But where are my manners!" Fandaniel said, grinning. "You have all traveled so very far and I have yet to pay my respects." He twirled his arm, bowing extravagantly. "Though in my defense, I was ill prepared to recieve so many uninvited guests. As such, preliminary entertainments were in order. A handful of tempered soldiers to hamper your progress. Refugees to command your attention while I siphoned their ceruleum from the shadows—particularly effective, that. Charitable souls that you are, you bent over backwards to aid them, heedless of the delay. Predictable to a fault. And so my plan approaches completion unhindered."

G'raha was hardly listening as the Ascian was speaking, his gaze entirely focused on the Imperial soldier lying on the ground behind him. He thought he could detect a hint of movement, breathing, beneath the dark armor, and he prayed Fiver could keep that body alive until he was back in his own.

"Anima will soon have absorbed the requisite amount of aether, and then shall come the spectacle to end all spectacles!" Fandaniel declared. "The eldest and most powerful of primals will awaken, and all shall bear witness to the Final Days!"

Behind him, the Imperial shifted. He struggled back to his knees, hands gripping a helmeted head. Zenos turned, Fiver's pale gaze looking down, empty of emotion. He stepped over, crouching in front of the Imperial, that cold smile widening on his face again. He spoke, quietly, his words clearly meant for the soul in front of him.

It was Fiver's voice that came out. Though the accent was wrong and G'raha knew it wasn't him saying the words, it still chilled him to hear them from Fiver's throat.

"The gods themselves will be my meal," he murmured. "Your dear companions my dessert. Upon this world I'll feast, and death shall follow in my wake. All your hate... all your rage... you will render unto me."

He shifted back, standing up as the Imperial collapsed again. Fandaniel snapped his fingers and he vanished at the same moment that Fiver's body suddenly went limp, collapsing to the ground.

G'raha darted forward, going first to the Imperial. He quickly checked for a pulse and found nothing and then moved to Fiver's side. His breathing was shallow and his pulse was rapid, but it was there. An exploratory pulse of healing magic found that he was uninjured.

"Y'shtola," G'raha said, and didn't need to finish the question.

"He is back where he belongs," she said, her blind gaze fixed on Fiver.

G'raha pushed Fiver's hair back from his face, hesitant to move him before he was certain his soul had settled back into his body, but equally not wanting to leave him lying in the snow for long.

Before he could make a decision, Fiver's face scrunched slightly, his brow drawing together and muscles tensing a moment before his eyes flickered open. Immediately, G'raha could tell Y'shtola was right. That cold lack of light was gone from his eyes. He looked dazed and confused for a moment before the memories of what had happened came flooding back to him. His eyes widened, filling with alarm and fear, and he lurched up, scrambling back away from G'raha. He looked at his hands and grabbed at his face and hair and ears, breathing hard.

"It's all right, you're all right," G'raha soothed.

Fiver stared at him. His gaze flicked briefly to the corpse of the Imperial and then over the Scions and back to G'raha.

"Is everyone all right?" he asked. His voice was soft and his tone told G'raha his real question. Did I hurt anyone?

"Everyone is fine, thanks to you," he murmured.

Fiver visibly relaxed, just slightly, but there was still something hollow and haunted in his gaze as G'raha helped him to his feet. He held his hand tightly, hoping to help ground Fiver as Lucia came to join them. He wished there was time to let him rest, to let him recover from being torn out of his own body, but he knew there wasn't. They needed to act now and, as Lucia spoke, G'raha could see that Fiver knew that too. His gaze emptied, expression settling into a stoic neutrality that G'raha recognized well from the First, as Fiver pushed down and buried everything that had just happened to him, preparing himself to keep going no matter what.

G'raha squeezed his hand gently, praying to any god that would listen that this would soon be over and Fiver would be given a chance to rest. He felt Fiver return the pressure as he responded in the affirmative to Lucia. The others started to head back up the hill toward the camp, going to prepare for their strike against Anima. Fiver hesitated, ducking his head to briefly press his face into G'raha's hair. G'raha turned his head, pushing his own face against Fiver's shoulder.

"I have your bow," he said, instead of many other things he wanted to say.

Fiver nodded as he shifted back. He said nothing as they walked back to Camp Broken Glass, but he kept his hand linked with G'raha's, holding onto him tightly like a lifeline.

#the thing i was writing in cute sunset gradient #ffxiv #fic #oc: fiver #wol/g'raha #endwalker spoilers #mostly g'raha pov but a lil fiver #on some level i'm always thinking about this quest and this moment

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candycryptids · 5 months ago

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17.out of all the scions, which one is the one your wol gets along with the best? what about the one they get along with the least? why?

20.what is your wol's best quality? what's the thing that they do that really gets stuff done of makes people like them? hard mode: their own perception vs. a friend or partner's perception.

both for Chuu!

Of the Scions….. 🤔 that’s toughies ! I think she tolerates Estinien’s presence the most since he lets her alone. But I don’t know if he counts- by EW he’s on payroll, but the second choice I have is Thancred for similar reasons- she’s not super sociable for crowds of people and they’re the most likely to break off from the crowd for similar reasons so it’s easy to just be people-watchers on the fringes. (Though I imagine Thancred is just taking ‘breathers’ and gets back in there after a few minutes).

In the Universe where she is THE warrior o light her favorite is Y’shtola though. There’s something really satisfying about her trust in you to back up her batshit plans that coincides with Chuu’s own batshit plans. Hack it until it works and failing that? blow it up so it’s not a problem anymore. EZ. (She also actually gets on quite well with Tataru, a friendly and smiling face she can count on to be there when she comes back from whatever armpit mission and pour her some tea while she bitches about the heat, the fight, the petty politics.)

She has the most trouble getting on with Alphinaud. In the Chuu Is The Wol-iverse she carries a sore spot for the Crystal Braves and using pocket change to partially fund a personal army- but she recognizes that it’s largely a case of. Being a child with too much accolades and praise and expectations heaped on his shoulders to the point where he keeps rising to it without so much the experience to match? It reminds her of somebody. …. In non-WoL usual canon though she has trouble getting on with Tataru PURELY because she knows how to find her and WILL call her if they need her help. She’s one of four people trusted with her linkpearl connection and it took some heavy convincing for that much.

FOR THE SECOND QUESTION, THOUGH,

Chuu sees herself as The Guy you see when a technical thing is giving you trouble, or if you want to rig your manacutter to go far and beyond the safe speed because you and your Miqo’te traveling companion want to recreate pod racing through Azys La. Her assistance was crucial in the building of that weird machine to go through all of that Allagan Research. Not that she makes it terribly easy to get in touch… but she believes her best quality is being The Expert™ that you call in when you’ve exhausted all your other options and she gets to step into the scene and Fix It. And then vanish again, crucially, she does not want to keep the spotlight.

My wrist is acting all kinds of unkind so writing a bunch more is giving me trouble but I’ll tell you Nero’s perception of her is that she’s a One-Upping, Show-Offing Arrogant Pain In His Ass, who is specifically showing up whenever he’s trying to look like a competent authority on whatever they’re dealing with just to dump a milkshake in his lap and make him look stupid.

Because she is. It is her passion in life to make Nero look stupid as hell.

[Pre-DT ?’s prompt!]

#ffxiv Chuu #ask game #TY for the ask Cinderrrrrr 🌸‼️ I had to rotate this one for a minute #Chuu also somewhat believes building Tuesday was the best thing she’s ever done :T #‘what’s her beef with Nero?’ she doesn’t like his face

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myrfing · 9 months ago

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alisaie - actually has the fighting style best for taking him down but she just doesn't have the skill and experience. without the mental/emotional "i cannot hurt these kids" component...sorry alisaie.

alphinaud - lol

thancred - 2nd most likely because nin spec & longest combat experience of the original crew. i think he can hold out for a few mins

urianger - i dont know wild card. maybe he'll get a death spellcast out on him. he'd probably also have a weird robin lucina moment where he'd go like well my life was always yours to take

y'shtola - would have a strong counter to his magic bs but her aether output just wouldn't match up to his + if he gets close enough then it would suck. she could just hit the flow button again and send both of them to hell

g'raha - could probably hold out for a few mins also. he might know some craazyy trickster magic i dont know but he's up against a hyperjacked all rounder. also would probably hit the my life was always yours to take

estinien - like gourd would break both his arms but it's cool he can still jump

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ainyan · 1 year ago

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After the Melee (Woven Souls Snippet)

“Well, that made for a refreshing change. Congratulations on your victory, by the way.” Kal’istae turned to meet Thancred’s single dark eye. He was clutching his side, one dagger sheathed, the other dangling from his hand. As she watched, he straightened with a pained grunt and scrubbed his blade off, then slid it home at his waist. “The Ishgardians certainly seem happy with themselves. I, for my part, am merely glad you did not strain anything in the process of single-handedly winning the battle for them.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I was hardly alone out there,” she muttered, grounding the butt of her lance in the snow as she looked him over thoughtfully. “Aymeric and the others put up their fair amount of fight.” She watched as he touched his side again. “Thancred, please, let me take a look at that.”

Even as she lifted her lance, preparing to send it off into the aether in exchange for her white mage’s cane, he reached out to touch her arm, stopping her. “‘Tis but a scratch, I assure you. And I will not suffer you to worry over me - not when we have a dozen far more important concerns.”

With an exasperated sigh, she lowered her arm again. “I disagree that I have any more important concerns, but if you’re certain,” she said dubiously, her eyes lingering on his with worry. “But pray, do not be brave for me. I am the last person for whom you need grandstand.”

He might have made some response, but a glint of yellow and black told him that Pipin and Raubahn were both approaching, crunching their way through the snow directly towards them. He sighed, closing his eye briefly. “...Make that two dozen. Still, as Y'shtola never tires of telling me, we can but face them head-on, one at a time.” His eye went distant. “One day at a time… as Minfilia would have done.”

“Thancred,” she whispered, and he rubbed his breastbone, his gaze focusing on her for one brief moment, then he turned and walked off without a word, leaving her alone to face the two approaching leaders.

“Thal's balls…” Raubahn pronounced as he and Pipin reached her. “I had forgotten what it was like to feel so alive!” Kal’istae looked amused, tilting her head back to look into his fiercely grinning face. “Not since leaving the Bloodsands have I had the privilege. Not since the Bull of Ala Mhigo hung up his swords.”

Kal’istae’s return smile was wry. “Privilege, is it?” she asked.

Raubahn snorted. “The Warrior of Light! Back then, the outcome might have been different. But I do not begrudge you your victory. I know how far you have come, how much you have endured. Our fight only confirmed it.”

She inclined her head. “And a hard-won fight it was,” she said diplomatically, though in truth it had been nothing of the kind. Still, she saw no reason to be unkind.

Raubahn nodded in firm agreement. “We shall have to do this again one day, when time allows. I shall look forward to it. Now go. Go to the Ishgardians and celebrate your victory. You have earned it.” He glanced down at his son. “Come, Pipin. Her Grace is expecting us.”

Pipin grinned. “Lead on, Father!” As the burly highlander turned away, however, his son paused, peering up at Kal’istae. “Thank you, Warrior of Light. My father has not been feeling himself, not since the events of the Bloody Banquet. Thank you for showing him that even one-armed, he is still the equal of any warrior but the Warrior of Light.”

Her expression grew soft. “That he is. I look forward to trying his mettle again someday.”

The lalafell smiled and swept her a courtly bow. “I look forward to seeing that match. Farewell, my lady.”

She remained standing in the snow as he darted off after his adoptive father, catching up easily to the hulking hyur as they crossed towards the tower where Nanamo awaited her champions. “Said your good-byes?”

She didn’t turn as Thancred came up behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him against the back of her neck. “I am glad to see that Raubahn does not resent my showing him up in the melee,” she replied.

Thancred’s lips twitched. “In all the years I have known Raubahn, I cannot recall ever seeing him look so happy in defeat.” As she lifted her head to study his face, he looked down, meeting her gaze. “Though I dare say defeat to you might well look like victory to anyone else, especially holding out as long as he did.”

Grimacing, she turned her head away. “I hate it when you say things like that.”

He sighed. “Why hide from the truth, Kal’istae?” he asked gently. “It is not your fault that you are the most powerful warrior of this - and possibly any - generation to date. ‘Tis a blessing, not a curse; see it as such.”

“I don’t like being different,” she muttered. “I just want to be like everyone else.”

Didn’t he know it? She was not the only one who felt that way; every Scion had, at one point or another, felt woefully out of place compared to those around them. Reaching up, he laid his hand on her head and she stiffened, then deliberately relaxed. “You are you, Kali, and beloved for it.”

“Beloved as myself, or as the Warrior of Light?” she asked morosely.

She didn’t mean it to be an opening, but damned if he wouldn’t take it anyway. “I can speak only for myself,” he murmured, and she looked at him sharply. “But I couldn’t give a hang about the Warrior of Light. Only you, Kal’istae. Only you.”

Their eyes held for a long, humming moment, then she looked away with a gasp. “Thancred,” she began, but a crunch of snow alerted them both and he dropped his hand away even as Aymeric came into sight.

“My lady!” he exclaimed, then came up short to see Thancred with her. Elezen and hyur stared at each other for a long moment, then the Knight Commander coughed and busied himself with his errand. “Glad am I to have found you. I wished to convey my deepest gratitude to you, for without your formidable presence upon the field, I scarce believe we would have won the day.”

Thancred gritted his teeth as Kal’istae’s shoulders fell slightly; Aymeric may not have noticed, but he certainly did. “I do not believe that for an instant,” she said with false gaiety. “Ishgard’s forces were certainly the equal of those fielded by the Eorzeans. Truly, you have made an excellent case for yourself on why they should accept you once more amongst their ranks, even without me.”

Aymeric’s smile was warmer than strictly necessary. “I would never argue with a lady,” he said, though his tone suggested he wanted to. “But still, accept my thanks. I am to meet with the leaders of the Alliance, but I hope you will join us this evening for dinner. You and your… companions.” His eyes flickered briefly to Thancred, momentarily disquiet, but as his gaze turned back to Kal’istae, it was all hopeful smiles.

What could she say? “Of course,” Kal’istae murmured. “I will speak with the other Scions, and I am certain they will wish to join as well. You honor us with the invitation.”

Aymeric waved off her words. “Believe me, my friend, the honor is all ours. This evening, then.” He cast one last, brief glance at Thancred, then turned and strode away towards where the leaders of the Eorzean Alliance awaited their Ishgardian counterpart.

“Kali,” Thancred began as soon as he was out of earshot, but she gave a quick, sharp shake of her head. He sighed. “Well! Everything seems to be falling into place, does it not? The Ishgardians have claimed their symbolic victory, and the Eorzean Alliance has been strengthened in the process.” Grateful, she turned to gaze up at him. “Be proud, Kal’istae. You made this happen.”

She shook her head. “We made this happen, my friend,” she murmured, and he smiled wryly.

“Very well,” he agreed. “We made this happen. And now we should be heading out of the cold. Maybe you don’t feel it, but believe me when I say that this outfit is better suited a lowlands gentleman than a highlands one.”

She chuckled. “I’d wondered when you’d admit it,” she murmured, and he wrinkled his nose at her. “Come. Let us get out of the cold, and tend to your wounds. We have, it seems, a party to attend this evening.”

“Oh joy,” came Thancred’s droll response, and they started off towards Ishgard to the welcome sound of her laughter, her worries left behind with the churned up snow.

#ffxiv #ffxiv fanfiction #kal'istae miurani #thancred waters #kalicred #au: woven souls

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karoiseka · 10 months ago

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Philia

((Day Two of #8DaysofXIVLove and Philia: Friendship love is today's topic! Have a very rough draft of some writing! 6.0 Spoilers!!))

The table in the corner allowed Karo to view everyone mill about with ease as she watched the people that had come to mean so much to her both catch up and say farewells to each other. She hadn’t fully recovered from her ordeal in Ultima Thul yet–still unable to stand under her own weight, and propped up in her own moving chair just like Arenvald as her hip healed. The fragile bones of her hand were also immobilized in a cast, healing magic being poured into them daily to ensure that she would someday regain full mobility.

Zenos had gifted her a matching shoulder scar to the one he had graced her with in Rhalgr’s Reach so long ago, and she hid the grimace that strove to cross her face as she thought of the unwanted permanent reminder of her fight at the edge of the Universe. Her hip and arm would still bear scars as well, but something about the shoulder one irked her. The silver strips showing clearly when wearing anything sleeveless–it felt like showing them off, trophies of the most morbid sort. One of Endsinger’s meteors had been to blame for the hip injury–not that she had felt any of it, pure Dynamis flowing through her veins until her final blow with the Garlean monster, hand shattering against his jaw. Collapsing there at the end of time–only to be pulled back from the brink by those that now danced the social steps around her.

In ones and twos people had come to sit with her, or stand near, talking of beloved memories, happy times, and what was to come next. Alphinaud had decided–well, with everyone–that it was time for the Scions to take a back-seat to the world stage again. Not that Karo disagreed with the idea, but she had yet to heal, yet to process everything that had happened in that dream-like place of pain and beauty. To “disband” the Scions–even if just to the public–added another layer of panic to her already busy brain.

There hadn’t been much to do except think the past weeks–no matter how much her loved ones tried to distract her. They hadn’t left her alone–they found that out the hard way when several days’ worth of healing were undone the one time she thought she was. The panic had spread throughout her, as no one was within sight, and she had somehow thrown herself off the bed, no other thoughts but to find them. It wasn’t always just Raha and Thancred either–all of the Scions in Sharlyan (and others besides), taking turns in her healing chambers, always within sight–or arms reach.

Urianger would read her long lost poetry, unearthed from Noumenon, or from one of the few tomes that she had spirited back in her pack from the Bookman’s Shelves. Y’shtola would quiz her on her healing magic, both teaching and keeping lessons fresh in her mind–and helping to ground her in the slowness of her own healing. Lyse had shown up, the smell of the hot Ala Mhigan sun bringing a warmth to the northern isle–unspoken worry lining her eyes, leaving calmer and reassured that all would be well. Alphinaud and Alisaie were there daily; if nothing more than a quick hello, or sitting during mealtime. Gossip of the city and the students alike–the itch to return to Garlemald apparent in most visits as they talked of world events.

At times a cool breeze would awaken her, only to find Estinien perched at the end of the bed. No words were usually spoken, just a small smile and a nod, allowing her to slip back into healing sleep in protective comfort. The smell of tea awoke her another day, a sheepish smile from Aymeric greeting her, teasing that he needed to stop getting to see her only when she was incapacitated. One by one, those that could make the trip trickled into the room. Sometimes only stayed a day or two, others finding lodging in the city and stopping in when time permitted, helping to ease the burden of those that were left to clean up. Her Da and Pa were told and reassured, linkpeal conversations happening regularly–but the sense of duty they had imparted into their daughter kept them in Radz-at-Han helping Vrtra. The Final Days had still hit hardest there, and the amount of recovery the island had needed every able-bodied individual that could.

Karo shook her head bringing her back to the present and the gathered Scions before her. She recognized everyone in the room, some more than others, the Echo helping her with names and reasons. It was bittersweet to have everyone gathered there–and she knew without a doubt it would have happened weeks ago if she had been able to be moved. Even as it was, the teleport had left her dazed for two days before she was able to sit up again–her aether sensitivity still abnormally high.

This was her family though. This is what had kept her alive, without a shadow of a doubt, through all the years since she had first walked through the Waking Sands door, and until she fought in that nightmarescape upon Zenos’ back. They may be scattering to the ends of the star and back, but she knew–without a single doubt–if she called for them, they would be there. Every last one of them. Tataru and F’lhaminn were headed towards her next as she filled her cup, ready for more socialization. It might still make her anxious, and she knew that her restless nights of terror wouldn’t be so easy to tame, and yet–a part of her was calmer already, knowing wherever her feet might roam, a piece of home was doubtlessly near.

#ffxiv #8DaysofXIVLove #karoiseka #scions #6.0 #philia #technically a rough draft #but trying to keep up!#there will prob be more screenshots in the future #but this would have been very difficult to screencap

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amoebaforce · 1 year ago

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How would you think the scions react to learning that after the final fight against Zenos in EW, the WoL had brought him back aswell for them to keep him alive, then when they also find out the reasoning behind it being that the WoL and Zenos are dating?

anon, this was a juicy one! i was immediately intrigued, then i thought... "what if they all found out at the SAME TIME?"

so that's what i wrote! enjoy! :D

characters featured: Thancred Waters, Urianger Augerelt, Y'shtola Rhul, Estinien Wyrmblood, G'raha Tia, Alphinaud & Alisaie Leveilleur, Zenos yae Galvus tags: angst, secret relationship, mention of violence/grievous injury, Endwalker spoilers!!!, gn!WoL word count: 1408

They’d really done it. Their unhinged plan — flying to the edge of the universe, bringing hope to the wellspring of despair — actually worked. When the starship landed, the sky was blue again, the sun shining bright and hot over the white-washed walls of Sharlayan. The Scions were heroes. And as such, they should have been celebrating their triumph. Or sleeping for a week. But, of course, they were doing neither.

Instead, they were crammed seven-deep into an infirmary waiting room, staring at walls and fidgeting as they waited for the Warrior of Light to emerge from one of the sick rooms. A fairly regular occurrence for them, with one exception. It was not the Warrior convalescing; it was the disgraced prince of Garlemald himself, Zenos viator Galvus. The fact that he swallowed the Mothercrystal’s power and hunted the Warrior to the edge of the universe was dramatic enough as it was, but the fact that the Warrior brought him back afterward?

Bizarre. That was the unspoken consensus between the Scions. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, unwilling to assume but burning with curiosity all the same. As they pondered a day full of incomprehensible occurrences, the door to Room Two slid open, and the Warrior of Light emerged into the waiting room. Their comrade’s face was grimmer than befits a shard of Azem. The silence was a shell no one wished to break.

Finally, someone exhaled.

“Does he live?” Y’shtola asked, tone held taut. The Warrior merely nodded their head. “How severe are the injuries?”

“Fractured jaw,” the Warrior recited, eyes a little glazed. “One wrist and one leg are broken, and a few ribs, too. Internal bleeding. Bruises and cuts everywhere.”

“What happened out there?” Alphinaud exclaimed. He rose to his feet, and his sister followed, though her eyes were still cast to the floor. “I mean, we almost lost you, and then he teleported aboard, too, and–”

“Zenos helped me,” the Warrior said suddenly. “We stopped the Song. Then we fought, and I… I couldn’t leave him there.”

Thancred and Urianger exchanged a look. The Warrior took another step into the room, not quite sure who to look at. A thousand emotions swirled through the Scions’ faces.

“Listen,” Thancred said, “I trust your judgment. If you saw fit to bring him back, I can’t argue.”

“Neither can I,” G’raha interjected. He fidgeted slightly in his seat. “Though I admit I’m a little confused as to why.”

Alisaie crossed her arms. “Me, too,” she muttered. “He’s a real piece of work.”

“People can change,” the Warrior argued, tone verging on defensive. “Look at Yotsuyu. Look at Fordola.”

The Elezen girl twisted her lips, though she couldn’t argue the point. Her brother took a go at it, instead.

“But you just said he went up there to fight you again,” Alphinaud countered. “Clearly he has not grown out of his fascination with harming you.”

“He doesn’t want to harm me,” the Warrior said. “It… It wasn’t like that. He challenges me because I’m his only equal. The only person who could ever hope to be a match to him.”

“What are you saying, exactly?” G’raha asked, ears twitching.

The Warrior hesitated. Cast their eyes around the room. A sea of faces stared back, all in various stages of bafflement. All faces the Warrior had come to know, love, and respect. They hung their head.

“I’m sorry,” they told the Scions. “I’ve been keeping a secret.”

In an instant, the room went airless.

“I beg your pardon?” Y’shtola demanded.

“What does that mean?” Alisaie shouted.

“Now, now,” Urianger said, stepping closer. “None of us have ever presumed to be privy to every facet of our comrade’s personal life. I am sure all of us have some intimate business we’d prefer not to air among ourselves. I cannot fault the Warrior for keeping their conversations with us work-related.”

“This is work-related,” Y’shtola shot back. “Zenos has been a thorn in our side for ages!”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” the Warrior said again. “But after that day in Garlemald, after Alisaie told him off, things changed. We talked. Came to understand each other.”

Thancred frowned. “Well, I guess if anyone could understand a guy like that, it might as well be you…” He trailed off, rubbing his chin.

“So you’ve been meeting with him in secret?” Alphinaud asked. The Warrior nodded.

“And what do you do on these rendezvous with the enemy?” Y’shtola pressed, even as Urianger lifted a brow at her tone.

The Warrior sighed. Memories flooded their mind. Soft nights in Ilsabard, splitting a loaf of rationed bread around the coals of a dying fire. Whispering into the crook of his neck as the sky turned pale.

“We just talked. Not about ‘work’ or anything like that — about life, and the past, and the future. He’s lonely. He wants to move on.”

“Tell that to the people left behind in the snow,” Alisaie snapped, and the Warrior winced, because she was right.

His freedom wasn’t fair. For acts like his, there had to be consequences. They’d told Zenos as much the first time he showed up at their door. But he showed up again, and again, and the Warrior realized he had nowhere to go. No one to cling to.

“He’ll atone,” the Warrior said, holding their chin high. “Just like the other architects of the war. I’ll make sure he does.”

“You speak as if you are his shepherd,” Y’shtola said.

When the Warrior did not deny it, the Scions went a little stiller. Another pause.

“Do you… care for him?” G’raha ventured.

The Warrior’s composed facade cracked.

“I do,” they confessed. Tears sprung to their eyes. “And I know Zenos has done a lot of bad, but so have I. I put down hordes of the tempered before there was treatment. They were innocent people. Victims. I held the dying in my arms as they told me their lives were less worthy than mine, like it was just that they died and I did not. And all of us who freed Doma and Ala Migho have Garlean blood on our hands.

“Yes, our righteous cause prevailed, and we saved the star, but I find no peace in that knowledge. I find it only with him. Zenos was groomed for the purpose of destruction, just like I was. We merely served different masters. And now, we both find ourselves at the end of our tasks, with no instructions for our next move. Equally lost. Yes, he is impulsive, and aggressive, and arrogant, but the world isn’t ending anymore — there’s a tomorrow again. One where a man like him might grow and evolve. I have to give him the chance to see it.”

A stunned silence settled over the Scions. Alisaie’s brow knitted with astonishment; Y’shtola’s mouth fell into an ‘O’. The Warrior gritted their teeth, waiting for a wave of scolding, but it never came. Everyone’s faces softened, eyes glazed as if ruminating — everyone but Estinien. He hadn’t said a word in hours, but now the dragoon let out a low chuckle. A smirk graced his lips.

“Didn’t realize you had a thing for blondes,” Estinien said.

Thancred snorted, and with a series of eye rolls and giggles, the tension between the Scions loosened into something breathable. Somewhere deep in the Warrior’s chest, a knot came untied.

“Me, neither,” they replied, allowing themselves a half-smile.

Urianger stepped forward to lay a hand on their shoulder. “Tis plain to me that you have made up your mind,” he said gently. “And just as plain that you hold the prince dear to your heart.”

“Aye,” Y’shtola murmured. “I do not pretend to understand you, my friend, but… I can’t tell you who to love.”

The Warrior wiped their eyes with their sleeve, uttering a teary laugh. G’raha offered a handkerchief, then pulled them into an embrace.

“Whatever makes you happy,” he said, so honest that it made the Warrior cry harder.

Alphinaud smiled to himself, already making a mental checklist of all the ways he could coordinate the prince’s reparation efforts with the Ilsabard Contingent’s. If utilized correctly and led by the Warrior, he thought, Zenos might well be a boon to the reconstruction. In fairness, he didn’t have very many fans left in the area… but that was a bridge to cross later. Right now, all the Warrior should worry about was recovery. Theirs, and their love’s, too.

#my writing #ffxiv #ffxiv fanfic #endwalker spoilers #zenos yae galvus #thancred waters #urianger augurelt #y'shtola rhul #g'raha tia #alphinaud leveilleur #alisaie leveilleur #estinien wyrmblood #warrior of light #ffxiv wol #zenos x wol #writing request

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