#vaindreau

[knights-of-ishgard]

one of the reasons i stopped posting stuff was partially bc of the godaweful caster role q in ew where they retconned basically all of zephirin's established lore and i got rly angry/frustrated/heartbroken about it, which is why i started to invest my time and energy in another subject/ship i have for around a year now.

not it's not len and fafnir, but he plays a role in lenthes' hc!

i still hate the canon q and now i just say fck the canon lore, honestly 🤷

[lunarosewood23]

“You...you shouldn’t be here. Unless you wish to kill me, which truthfully I deserve it after not rightfully listening to my instincts and killing an innocent man.” He rationed. He was prepared for it, if there was anyone who should have the chance to kill him it was the former Archmandrite.

Ser Vaindreau didn’t redraw his blade. Instead he reached up and patted Charibert’s shoulder, a smile tugging at his lips.

His eyes went wide at the old man’s actions before falling closed, it felt like Vaindreau tried to squeeze his shoulder in...assurance? He wasn’t sure, but when he realized what he was doing he smiled sheepishly.

“I do not need forgiveness, nor am I worthy or deserving of it.” He said softly before looking up at the old man. “But I am thankful I have it. Mark my words Ishgard will see a brighter future, and your service will not be in vain.”

With that he ran after his sister and her friends, there was still much more ground to cover before they reached the heart of the world.

[lilbittymonster]

Day 2: Horizon

Read on AO3

Kitali leaned against the railing as the ship slowly pulled away from Limsa, the city lights growing dimmer by the minute as they disappeared into the horizon. Once the rest of the crew was relatively settled after the initial departure the upper deck was quiet while everyone went below to the mess hall. Nothing but the salted breeze and lapping of waves kept her company, and it was a relief after the last few tense weeks to have time to herself.

Until the sound of measured booted steps came from behind her.

“I thought we had made a deal, Mistress Moonblade,” said the steely voice of Carvallain.

“We did. And I’ve upheld my end.” Kitali hardly turned her head as he leaned against the railing to face her.

“Then how is it that your secretary could hold such blackmail over my head?” he drawled.

“The woman worked as a barmaid in the Knight for the better part of a year. Who knows how much gossip she’s absorbed? And you’re the spitting image of your father, sorry to say.”

Carvallain grumbled under his breath but didn’t press any further accusations. The two stayed silent, regarding the stars, until he spoke up again. Softer, this time.

“How is he?”

“Who, Charlemend?”

“Aye.”

“He still searches for his missing son and hopes one day he will return to Ishgard,” Kitali said. “Though I’m sure you knew that already.”

A grunt was her only confirmation.

“He’s….he’s trying. He was one of the first of the High Houses to come around on the change in government. He’s even taken up working in Saint Vaindreau’s Grace with the healers.”

A sound of surprise escaped Carvallain. “My father, deigning to spend his time amongst the rabble of the lower city?” he said dryly. “Mayhap there is such a thing as miracles.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“I shall take your word for it."

[mimble-sparklepudding]

For Humble! Rather than restoring an area or place does he prefer to aid or donate to good causes (such as relief for the Resistance families, Ser Vaindreau's Grace etc.) no matter how big or small?

Humble is definitely more one to take a hands-on approach when it comes to restoration efforts or charitable endeavours. He does donate financially to various causes, but he leaves the particulars down to Tataru to manage for him, as he would be unable to tell you how much wealth he actually possesses at any given time.

He feels more comfortable donating resources or materials than gil, as he worries that people might think he was trying to be grandiose by throwing his money around (as he sees it). However he does have a much more realistic sense of the cost of necessities than either Estinien or Alphinaud (for example) and will gladly part with his gil if it alleviates the hardships of others.

If he does have a fault in this regard, it is a slight naivety that has occasionally led to him being swindled by con-artists with a convincing sob story (and earned him a scolding from Tataru).

[thebumblebeesystem]

(Spoilers for the Endwalker magical ranged role quest)

So, I'm finally working on the Endwalker mage quests. And I did not expect to have a "wow, this reads different as a DID (dissociative identity disorder) system" moment during them. I figured I'd post about it because I know a lot of systems don't talk about their experiences with playing ffxiv, for good reason - we often get taunted, threatened, etc. quite a bit when we go public. That hasn't happened to me yet, thankfully - the ffxiv community has been kind to me about it. And every time I post, I get comments from systems who are glad I spoke up. So I'll keep doing it.

Anyway, the moment was this one - when Vaindreau was trying to answer the seemingly simple question of what his name was.

Long before I knew I was a system, I had multiple name changes as an adult. Every time I'd go through something big or traumatic, I'd feel like I changed so much that I became a different person, and my old name didn't feel like it fit anymore. This seemed completely normal to me, despite never having met anyone else who changed their name repeatedly like this. And now I know why I did it. These were host changes.

For the unfamiliar, when I say "host" I mean like dinner party host. The host is the system member (my system's word for "alter") who is around constantly and manages most things. Other system members come to and from the dinner party table (called "co-fronting" or "co-conscious," depending on what they do while at the table). But the host is always there.

When a new host in my system asks themself a seemingly simple question - what do I want people to call me? - there are many options. "So many names, swirling in my mind, and voices that reject them." It took us weeks to settle on our latest name of Bee, a few months ago. Different system members came to and from the table, giving their input. We took occasional polls of our system depending on who was around. It was a big group decision.

But that's how it went as a self-aware system. In the past, when we didn't know we were a system? When we didn't know that each individual voice in our head was a real person, with their own name and personality and likes and dislikes and all? We reacted exactly like Vaindreau did in this scene. What is my name? Why are so many names racing through my mind? Why can't I settle on one of them? Why can't I answer such a simple question?

And then the asker gets impatient - can you tell me your name or not? Either you remember your name or you don't. Everyone's got one, whether they got it at birth or they changed it later, so what's yours? I don't know. I don't know, because my mind can't agree on one. And so, to stop the odd stares and repeated questions, I'd spit out the first name that felt the most... passable. The one that the voices didn't object to, or perhaps, the one that the least amount of voices objected to. It didn't feel quite right. Quite accurate. Quite... complete. But an answer was expected of me, and so I gave one.

We've learned, over time. Our system is called "the bumblebee system," because each of us in the system is like a fluffy bumble bee flying from flower to flower... and occasionally slamming into a window, repeatedly, and being really confused about it. When someone calls us "Bee," they're referring to either all the bees in the system or to one or a few specific bees, depending on the context. Bee is a catch-all, inclusive name. Our past names (like B'Elarra, which was my name when most of you met me) were the name of the host only, while the other system members went largely unspoken to. Choosing the name of Bee this time was our way of correcting that.

Anyway. This isn't my first time having a "wow, this reads different as a DID system" moment while playing this game. Two others that come to mind are Fray and Ardbert - especially the way that fanfic writers often write them. So many of you have written amazingly good accidental system representation and didn't even know it. Maybe I'll talk about this sometime, too. But for now... I just wanted to get this out of my (ha) system.

(Pardon any typos, missing words, etc. I proofread this a few times, but I have a migraine and words are hard.)

[pumpkinmagekupo]

Send 🧸 for a screenshot associated with children or childhood.

Thank you for the ask!! (´• ω •`) ♡

Mizuki had a rough childhood.

So lets look at how she is with children.

After the Dragonsong war and when Mizuki was helping out at Ser Vaindreau's Grace, she agreed to teach Maurilette some alchemy. So she could help make the poultices and eventually Ronantain joined her little lessons.

She has a lot of patience for children.

[myreia]

wip whenever

tagged by @thevikingwoman and @impossible-rat-babies, thank you friends! 💖 tagging @bearlytolerant @allaganexarch @a-shakespearean-in-paris @roguelioness @coldshrugs @lilas @galadae @birues and anyone else who would like to share what they're working on This is from the start of Chapter 8 of this FFXIV Heavensward longfic I've been fiddling with for a while! Aureia's getting herself into some kind of emotional mess.

For the second time that night, Aureia stands outside the Borel Manor, huddled in her soaked coat with her hands tucked into her armpits. Her hair is a sodden mess around her shoulders, dark tangles plastered against her chin and neck. Her tunic clings uncomfortable to her damp and clammy skin. Her muddy boots are so water-logged she can hear it sloshing around with every step and she wear she can feel her toes pruning inside their socks. Fire-aspected aether and clever little orbs will do little to warm her now.

She can still feel Thancred’s touch on her. No amount of rain can wash that away now.

For a brief moment in the alley she considered following him to the infirmary. She wondered what she would say to him, months of grievances and rising tensions and frustrations tumbling out of her all at once. Her overwhelming guilt once she discovered he was alive. His bitter envy upon his return. His growing resentfulness towards her and Ishgard. His refusal to accept what happened to Minfilia. His relationship with Hilda—if she can even call it that—was one thing, perhaps even something she has come to accept. But everything else?

It is not something that can be fixed with a kiss in an alleyway.

She doesn’t know if it can be ever be fixed. Their bond is as scarred as the brands upon her back. There is too much painful history between them. How can she say she loves him when the sight of him makes her furious?

And so she turned her back on the alley and walked back to the Pillars. She has no desire to hole up alone in the Forgotten Knight, nor test her patience against Edmont’s scrutiny in the comfort of the Fortemps Manor. She wants to see Aymeric. Needs to see him. She owes him an apology for her earlier behaviour, perhaps an explanation, if he will accept it. She left him startled and confused with the way she kissed him, and it does not sit well with her leave that thread hanging.

Besides, she left her rapier here, she can’t go to Xelphatol without it. That’s as good a reason as any to call upon him this late at night. Knowing him, he will still be awake. Working.

Swallowing any remaining nervousness, Aureia strides up to the manor gates. The knights—miserable with their nightly post, but too professional to complain—recognize her instantly and wave her through without comment. She nods her thanks, grateful not to have a repeat of Gillesoireaux, and hurries up the path to the front door. The estate is dark save for a few lights flickering from the second-floor windows. Clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, she knocks rapidly on the door and waits, praying that someone will answer.

Silence.

She curses. Shifting her weight from foot to foot and trying her best to ignore the sloshing noise, she raps furiously on the door a second time. And a third. Hail rains down, pelting the path behind her with tiny balls of ice.

She is raising her fist for a fourth attempt when the door swings open.

Light spills outward from the foyer, backlighting a tall Elezen man. His thick, bushy eyebrows frown at her and he tuts disapprovingly.

“Mistress Malathar! This is quite a surprise,” Marcel says with no surprise. “Ser Aymeric informed me you would be attending Saint Vaindreau’s Grace to accompany one of your fellow Scions. An injured maiden, or so I was told. Is this no longer the case?

“Alisaie is in good hands with her brother watching over her,” Aureia replies. “I would merely get underfoot.”

“Then may I inquire as to what brings you to our doorstep? My lord finds himself absorbed in his work tonight, immersed in the important tedium of drafting memos and preparing requisitions. Hardly the work for more than one mind, I’m afraid. I fear you may find yourself—how did you put it?—underfoot.”

She blinks impassively, fixing him with a cold look. “I left my weapons here. I came to collect them.”

“Indeed.” Marcel reaches behind the door and withdraws her rapier and focus, proffering them to her. “An unfortunate slip of the mind, I see. My staff were quite happy to hold them until your return.”

She takes them from his outstretched hand and attaches them to her waist. “Thank you—”

“And now if this concludes your business? Goodnight, mademoiselle—”

“Wait!” Her hand flies out, catching the door as Marcel moves to close it. Part of her can only think of how pathetic she must look, standing here on the doorstep like a sopping wet cat, mewling to be let in. But she is determined. She has to see Aymeric. It doesn’t have to be for long—just long enough to tell him how sorry she is. “I have news for Ser Aymeric. It is of terrible importance. He must know at once.”

His eyes narrow, seeing through her ruse. It is a weak excuse, but she is gambling on his pride as a butler and a senior member of the Borel staff. He may not believe her, but on the off-chance that she is telling the truth, he cannot risk turning her away.

“It is nearing the toll of the midnight bell, Mistress Malathar,” Marcel says finally. “What is this message? I am happy to inform Ser Aymeric—”

“It is something I am entrusted to tell him. Scion business. Urgent.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh and throws the door wide open. “Enter, then,” he says, stepping aside as she trundles across the threshold. He winces at the mess her boots make on the floor. “And please wipe your feet.”

She does. It does little to help.

“Oh, for Fury’s sake…” Marcel tuts and snaps the door closed. “Leave your boots there if you must. My lord is in his study. Second floor, down the hall to your right, and the third door on the left. And I beg you, my lady, please try not to make a mess on your way up.”

Aureia gives him as grateful a smile as she can muster and does as she is told. She strips off her boots and socks, leaving them in a careful pile to the side of the threshold. Striding past Marcel, she sweeps up the stairs and wrings out her hair, raking her fingers through the dark strands to give it some semblance of professionalism.

The upstairs hall is dark but cozy. Vases of lilacs and seasonal flowers from the Twelveswood and the Dravanian Forelands line the hallway, interspersed between small bookcases and plush benches. Lanterns light the way, their gentle glow reflected in the saturated darkness of the window panes.

She heads down the corridor, shivering from head to toe and dripping water with every step. Though she tries once or twice to mop up after herself, she simply leaves more water on the floor than before. Muttering a curse, she gives up and hurries to the end. Aymeric’s study is easy enough to find—through the door, she can hear the unmistakable crackle of flames in a hearth and the steady hum of his voice as he talks to himself, composing one missive or another.

Brushing her hair behind her ears, she breathes in a deep breath and opens the door.

Aymeric leans against his desk, a sheaf of parchment in one hand and a quill in the other. He has traded his comfortable doublet for the attire of the Lord Commander as if he is prepared to launch an attack on Xelphatol tonight. He chews his lower lip, lost in thought, and eyes trained on the letter.

“Marcel, I promise I will rest once I have composed—” He looks up, mouth open in astonishment. “Aureia? What brings you here? Has Alisaie taken a turn for the worst—?”

Aureia closes the door. “She’s fine, Aymeric. She is in good hands.”

“Thank Halone.” He exhales a relieved breath only to pause, his eyes narrowing with concern. There’s no hiding her damp hair or her soaked coat or her miserable little bare feet on the polished wood floor. “But what has happened to you? By the Fury, you must be freezing—”

“Don’t worry about me.” She folds her arms tightly around herself, doing her best to hide her chattering teeth. “Caught in bad weather.”

He sets his missive down. “Take the coat off and sit down,” he says, gesturing the couch. The crackling hearth illuminates it in a warm glow, the flickering light playing off the ornamental rug on the floor. An Ishgardian hunting scene is woven into the carpet. Knights ride the fields on their chocobos while dragoons chase the skies, while the Fury looks on from Her seat. Loops of halone gerbera decorate the fringes. “I will not have you catching cold on account of me.”

She smiles and holds out a hand, palm up. Three small orbs burst to life, their flames warming her skin. “This is me you’re talking about, remember?”

He shoots her a look. The joke has done nothing to ease his concern. “Aureia, please, you’re chilled to the bone. Take the coat off and sit. Let me call Marcel, I’m sure there is spare clothing in the servants’ quarters—”

“No need. I don’t plan to be here for long.” Sensing that he won’t let it go easily, she acquiesces and closes her palm, snuffing the flames out. She removes her rapier and shrugs off the coat, throwing the sodden red leather over the back of the couch. She shivers and tugs at her tunic, the damp fabric clinging to her breasts. She feels exposed without her coat. “I came to apologize.”

Aymeric blinks in confusion. For a briefest of moments, his gaze flicks down, staring at her damnable wet tunic before quickly correcting himself. “There is nothing you have done that you must apologize for,” he says quietly.  

“There is.” She wets her lower lip and rests a hand on the couch, tugging absently at a decorative throw blanket tossed over its back. “Earlier tonight, I behaved… Poorly, I think. The wine, perhaps, is to blame, though that does not excuse it. I should never have kissed you—”

“And I said there is nothing you must apologize for.”

His voice is firm. He pushes away from his desk, drawing himself to his full height, his hands resting at his sides. With his profile cast half in shadows, his eyes shine bright with all the intensity and passion she has come to know him for. The gold and sapphire earring glitters, catching the firelight.

She swallows, raising her chin to meet his eyes. Gods… she never quite realized until now tall he is compared to her. “Nevertheless I will.”

“Then it is an apology I will not accept.”

“Aymeric—”

He strides across the room, seizes her face in his hands and kisses her. She gasps in surprise, trembling with an electric sensation as if she has consumed too much mana at once. He holds her close, bending to accommodate their difference in height. His hands are warm, his kiss gentle but fervent, a culmination of all the things left unspoken between them. 

She pauses, a moment of hesitation whirling through her mind, demanding to know if this is the right call. But frightened though she is, she trusts him. She trusts the love he has for her. If she backs away now, there will be no going back.

This is for her.

[that1nkyone]

1nky is normal about Magical DPS Role Quests Part II.

that's azys la isn't it

what kinda BS are you guys doing there

COOL GREAT AMAZING

COOL COOL COOL

I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt with dealing with a changing Ishgard and all the self-doubt and crisis of faith that came with it BUT NO YOU WERE LIKE 'HEY THORDAN ABSOLUTELY HAD THE RIGHT IDEA' LET'S MAKE A GOD THAT'S SO AWESOME'

OH THEY'RE JUST STRAIGHT UP TRYING TO SUMMON THEM BACK GREAT AWESOME COOL

WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU FIND THIS POOR BASTARD

oh he's an allagan clone...

... wait did they just summon back the original ser vaindreau is that what's happening

Vartinoix left while I was in the throes of the Echo, didn't he?

YEP

Oh, he's still here! Maybe we can just -

fuck

okay he didn't get the One Woman Wail, he got the 'fuck we're gonna have a Blasphemy onscreen soon' theme.

This is a Very Bad Day for Everyone Involved. Artoirel looks real shaken, here. ) :

yes please stay with Clem, he's dealing with the loss of who he thought would be a good figurehead of the church. Again.

And Aymeric... hasn't said anything since he struck Vartinoix down.

...

Atta boy, Clem.

... Aymeric isn't doing well, is he?

Let's see what we can do to get more information about the summoning. I like how they reference the fact that summoning Thordan and the Knights Twelve failed because of a lack of aether - no Nidhogg Eyes, and no Warring Triad. But they did summon a champion of sorts - and I'm betting they summoned one of the original Knights Twelve.

Also, talking to the other summoners resulted in them panicking and Turning! let's, uh, try another method to figuring out more about this clone.

Onwards! To Camp Dragon... head...

;_;

So we got some clues - it looks like there was a low-flying airship straight before Vaindreau was found. In order to find any sign, we gotta spread out and search by air -

-YE S.

YEYEYEYEYEYEAH

YEYEYEYEYEYEYEAHHH

(Look Ash'li's gotta find the Little Things to keep him motivated and going flying on chocobos with a good friend is Up There for him)

... oh.

... hey there, buddy. ) :

Oop, time for the Echo. Gimme a sec, Aymeric.

... the dude didn't even know who or what he was. The entirety of the Knights Twelve were intended to be brought forth through summoning.

... at least one name seemed to stick out.

Yeah, the fact that the Archbishop and Knights Twelve are dead isn't gonna be welcome news to this guy -

Ah. Well.

Here we are, then.

Hup, sorry! What've I missed?

Ah.

Okay.

(to be continued)

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

pls pls tell us how Mathye and Charlemend became friends I am DYING to know!

Mathye will request to work in the hardest-hit/poorer areas of Ishgard whenever he's back in the city. During the Firmament's reconstruction, he elected to work in Ser Vaindreau's Grace--just as Charlemend and Maelie joined. Maurilette thought it would be a good idea to assign Charlemend to Mathye as an assistant.

The two pretty much had been working off negative stories/connotations about the other--but Mathye getting to see Charlemend willing to get his hands dirty while Charlemend saw Mathye work first hand--went a long way in the two of them developing a mutual respect for one another, which then turned into friendship. It also helped they had a shared interest in Maelie's education, Mathye teaching Maelie basic healing (and by proxy Charlemend, who was teaching Maelie how to read and write).

[wandererorion]

Auraugust Day 3: Already going off script

Okay today's prompt was supposed to be "Heat Wave," which is a great prompt, but then I went completely off script and had to write 1.6k words of hurt/comfort Post-Vault angst. And then I HAD to do a gpose about it and now we're here. Fic under the cut! Heavensward spoilers abound!

Prompt List | Yesterday's Post

Turning a corner into a long hallway of private chambers in Saint Vaindreau’s Grace, Orion heard a rasping snarl, followed swiftly by a cacophony of glass clattering and shattering to the floor. Rushing to the third door on the right, he shoved it open.

“Kendra, are you alright?” Orion asked, eyes wide in panic. 

Kendra stood, her vibrant hair loose and tousled around her face, staring balefully at the pile of shattered glass and pooling tinctures at her feet. 

Feet that happened to be bare and quite close to thousands of shards of freshly broken glass. She was dressed only in a loose white shift that fell just past her knees. At some point she must have pushed the billowing sleeves up to her shoulders, leaving her wiry arms bare to the clammy air of the hospital. 

“Does it look like I’m alright?” she growled at Orion. She clenched both her fists so tightly that her knuckles went white, bright against her tanned skin. “I’m stuck in this - this cell while the Heavensward get further and further away. I can’t even fucking hold myself up, let alone a sword. Aymeric is wounded! And Haurch-” 

She choked on the precious name, unable to finish her thought. Her hands raised to her face as hot tears dripped off her dark lashes. With a sob, her knees buckled and she began to fall to the glass covered floor. 

Orion rushed to Kendra’s side, propping her up, mindful of the wound on her shoulder. Large, incomprehensibly gentle hands eased her back to the bed, propping her against the footboard, making sure she didn’t put any pressure on her feet until clear of the glass.

Once Orion was certain her weight had settled against the mattress, his grip loosened but he didn’t move out of her space. He cupped the back of her head in his palm and pressed her face to the soft, well-worn linen of his shirt while he rubbed firm, comforting circles into her back with the other. She could feel the firm keratin nodules of his chin rest lightly against the top of her head. 

“I’m sorry,” Orion said. “I’m so sorry, Kendra. If only I had kept up with you two. If I had been closer I could have…” His own voice caught in his throat as his sobs joined hers. “I’m sorry…” For a moment, he just held her close. The only sound in the room was the arhythmic staccato of their cries. 

“No,” Kendra said, pushing Orion away. “I can’t.”

She attempted to get to her feet, but Orion held her firmly in place. “I can’t just lie here feeling sorry for myself, I have to - “ 

“You have to rest and heal,” Orion’s firm medic’s voice came to the surface. “You’re in no shape to be going anywhere.” 

“Bollocks, I’m in no shape!” Kendra snapped. “I have to go check on Aym. We need to get an airship ready. The more time we delay, the further those void blighted bastards get away. There’s no time!”

She struggled against Orion’s hold but he firmly kept her in place, seated on the bed. He tried to reason with her, “I know, but Kendra, you’re in no shape to - “ 

“I don’t fucking care! Let me go!” she shouted. Strong, sharp nails found the soft, carmine-red skin between patches of obsidian scales. 

“Enough!” Orion finally raised his voice and gave her a single, firm shake. 

Startled, Kendra looked up at him with wide, watery aquamarine eyes. 

Orion closed his eyes and sighed heavily through his nose, attempting to recenter himself despite his own grief and distress. “I know you want nothing more than justice for Haurchefant right now. I understand. I want that too. And I know that being stuck in hospital is just compounding your feelings of impotence, but I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

He looked her directly in the eye, an uncommon move for a man as fussy and perpetually busy as Orion. “Your injuries may not be severe, but they could easily become so if you exacerbate them with strenuous activity.”

Kendra opened her mouth to interrupt him but Orion quickly cut her off. “Please let me finish my thought. Alphinaud and I are going straight to the Knight Commander’s office from here. We will check on Aymeric and plan our next move. Then we will ready the airship and make chase. I swear to you, I will not let any of them see another sunrise if it’s in my power. But in order to do all that, I need to know that you are safe and healing, right here. If you run off, half-cocked, your wounds still seeping, I will be more concerned with your safety than the task at hand. I’m even second guessing letting Alphinaudu come along.”

Cupping her face with one surprisingly soft hand, Orion traced the line of her clan markings with his thumb. 

“Please, Kendra. We both lost someone we love. I may not have loved Haurchefant in the same way or with the same intensity as you, but he was a comrade and a dear friend. I’m also reeling from his loss. I can’t - “ Orion choked, tears threatening to fall from luminous eyes. “I can’t lose another person I love today.”

Kendra remained silent, casting her eyes down to where she was wringing her hands in her lap. But she still craned her neck and purred softly as Orion bent down to press his forehead to hers. Their breaths mingled as each basked in the other’s presence. 

Orion was unsure when they had started this ritual, sometime in the chaos after the Bloody Banquet. It had been just the two of them and a traumatized teenager, on the run. 

At some point between losing the other Scions and now, Kendra had gone from begrudging colleague to the one fixed point in the maelstrom of his life. When they were first recruited Orion saw her as a lewd, raucous thief with an angel’s voice who drove him to distraction. Now, she was everything, almost like a lost shard of himself that he didn’t even know was missing. Knowing she was here and safe was the only thing keeping him from completely falling to pieces. 

Taking a deep breath, he straightened. He brushed his thumb against her cheek once more before letting his hand drop. “Now,” he said. “Before I go, would you let me take a look at your wounds?”

Kendra nodded, mutely.

Starting with her ankle, Orion gently poked at the swollen flesh. “Looks like it’s just a sprain, no breaks. I’ll have one of the Chirugeons come by and wrap it so that you’ve got some compression and support.” 

Falling into medic mode, he reached for the ties holding her neckline together, but then caught himself. “May I?” he asked, bashfully. “I’d like to check the bandage on your shoulder. Want to make sure you didn’t pull any stitches while heaving twenty pounds of glass and liquid across the room.”

In answer, Kendra reached up and unlaced her shirt, letting it fall open, revealing a prominent clavicle and a wiry shoulder, wrapped in linen bandages that were just starting to turn pink in a few spots. With a delicacy that still surprised her, Orion pulled her collar back a bit further so he could reach the tie of her bandage and unwrap it, revealing the pad of gauze and the stitched flesh beneath.

“Hmmm… the wound is seeping a little and it’s swollen but you don’t seem to have torn any of the stitches. Here.” Orion reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a small vial. “Drink this. It’s not a sedative, I promise, just an anti-inflammatory and immune booster. It will help the flesh calm down faster and help prevent any infection from setting in.” 

Kendra nodded and mechanically tossed the liquid back as if she was taking a shot of the strongest Brume spirits. Still saying nothing, she handed the vial back to Orion. Taking it, he watched her in awkward silence for a few moments, waiting for her to say something. Anything really.

But Kendra remained uncharacteristically silent, eyes downcast, ears tilted back and pressed close to her head. 

Realizing he would get no more from his companion, Orion leaned forward and placed a light kiss on her forehead. The incense of the Vault still clung to the loose fibers of her hair. 

He affectionately squeezed her leg, just above her knee as he stood. “A chirurgeon will be ‘round shortly with fresh bandages and an ankle brace. Thank you, Kendra. I know this goes against your nature. I won’t let you down. I promise,” he said. Kendra just looked at his feet, face expressionless. 

Orion smoothed the front of his tunic nervously, and then made his retreat. The hard leather of the soles of his boots made a quiet scuffing sound against the rough stone floors. Kendra continued to listen for the quiet shushing after he closed the door and walked back down the corridor. 

As soon as his footsteps faded into the background noise of the hospital, Kendra stood from the bed. Grabbing the used bandage, she sloppily rewrapped her shoulder and tied it off with one hand and her teeth. Then she walked straight to the door of her chamber, pace steady and certain, seemingly oblivious to the screaming muscles and tendons of her left ankle and the tiny specks of blood she left on the floor as shards of glass pierced the soles of her feet.

Like hell, he was leaving her behind.

[lady-lissette]

Elftober 2023 - Day 1 - Introduction

Lady Lissette Marjolie de Isedaire For many years, Lissette travelled across Eorzea and beyond as an adventurer. When news of the Dragonsong War coming to an end finally made its way to her, Lissette decided to settle back down in her childhood home for good. Today, she runs a tea shop called 'The Lavish Brew' and also serves as a representative of the Adventurers' Guild in the newly-established guild in the Firmament.

Roselle Colombet Greystone Having grown resentful of mistreatment from the family that never wanted her, Roselle eventually found comfort with the heretics. As a follower of Lady Iceheart, she served from the sidelines as a healer. However, as it was later revealed that she never put anyone in harm's way and on more than one occasion came to the aid of wounded knights in secret, she was pardoned for her affiliation. She was permitted back into the city once the war was over, and now, she serves as an alchemist in Ser Vaindreau's Grace.

[kelzen]

here, i'll forgive my thoughts now

It's not unusual in Ishgard for rumors to spread through the city that a knight of the Heavens' Ward has once again been spotted. There's never truly a knight roaming the streets, of course—even when they claim to be Ser Vaindreau himself.

Maeve's Echo tends to show her the ghost of another former archimandrite whenever she visits, however.

[eorzeashan]

minor spoilers for EW magical ranged quest but if I didn't already have an ishgardian knight character I originally wanted to alt again as a Vaindreau who wasn't turned into a blasphemy; like the sheer concept of a man forced to bear the will of the entire Heavens Ward and the KOTR was just so metal that I'm honestly kind of mad all he became was a phantasmal dragon...thing. I really thought he'd go somewhere besides crying vengeance but it speaks like the remnants of their grudge, so I can't be that disappointed.

I also thought we'd get to meet him as a character and there were so many things I wanted to ask him when he woke up in the hospital confused and alone; I really would've liked the idea of him finding redemption and a new life but...EW has the same theme of simply killing those with transgressions and giving them no "after" for the sake of those who live in the present.

That being said, I keep coming back to his concept so we'll see if I cave eventually (though going through msq again incites in me primal fear).

[mimble-sparklepudding]

Mobile wouldn’t let me copy the question but 2!

Most of us are travelers, but does your WoL/OC currently have a particular place they consider 'home'? Is it the same as where they grew up? If not, what makes it home for them?

Mimble doesn't feel particularly attached to any specific place - at least not one he could actually live in (he has an attachment, somewhat against his will, with Amdapor, but he would draw the line at trying to live in the ruins).

He quite likes staying in various hostelries and inns - especially as he is often hosted for free and provided with meals courtesy of the appreciative locals (Mimble doesn't intentionally take advantage of his status as Warrior of Light, but if someone offers him free food as an expression of their gratitude for his heroism, well it would be churlish to refuse).

However he does have a small property in The Empyrean, which he sometimes stays in for periods of time. Nobody is entirely sure why Mimble should have chosen to settle in Ishgard, especially given the well-known Lalafellin aversion to cold and snow, but he seems to quite like having a base there.

His garden, and indeed most of the structure, is covered in a riot of colourful flowers and blossoming trees, regardless of the weather or time of year. Whether this is deliberately maintained by powerful enchantments, or is simply a side-effect of Mimble's aetheric propinquity, his neighbours are too polite to enquire.

Whilst it is a comfortable and convenient enough base, for those times when Mimble isn't otherwise engaged in the business of protecting the star, he doesn't necessarily feel a sense of belonging in Ishgard.

Indeed, generally he exists outside the hierarchies and day-to-day politics of the city - although he will offer advice and support to Artoirel (if requested) and Emmanellain (whether he likes it or not). He will also cheerfully help Francel with issues pertaining to The Firmament, especially the Rolanberry Field Orphanage and Ser Vaindreau's Grace.

[theimperialnuisance]

FFXIV Write 2022 //ffxivwrite info//prompt list//character info//master post//

Prompt twenty-two: Veracity | noun: conformity to facts; accuracy | Word count: 452 Characters: Syren Ligeia and his parents Cw: none Notes: I really want to dive into Heavensward with Syren as he is from Ishgard and ooh the content is just perfection. So here’s another young Syren story. It’s based off the short story on Lodestone “What remains of a Knight” I don’t know when it takes place but I’m going to guess it was still pre-Heavensward timeline and before Syren left Ishgard as I imagine Ser Zephirin didn’t just take the Archimandrite title when Heavensward or the pre-content began. Not really going to put an age to him here yet as he is my older wol and I’m still figuring out his timeline.

——

As a commander of a unit in the Temple Knights, Ser Clauvont was rarely home. So when the great oak door of the Ligeia manor opened late one night, Thalia Ligeia, the only resident awake at the time, was rather surprised to see the battle-hardened Elezen walk in. She had been in the palor by herself, nursing a cup of tea and a book, unable to get much sleep as her nights were always restless on the nights her husband wasn’t home. Needless to say, she was elated to see him hale and whole, if not a little exhausted. 

The two of them shared a quiet embrace for what felt like several bells and then went into the kitchen where Thalia prepared her husband a cup of tea. She settled down across the table from him, her own cup of tea soon abandoned as she listened to Clauvont speak about his latest missions with rapt attention. 

“Did you hear the news this morning, my dear?” He asked quietly as he took a small sip of his tea.

“The news of Ser Vaindreau de Rouchemande?” Thalia’s gaze softened as her husband nodded his head. He seemed worried about something.

“A man so loyal and unbroken to the Archbishop for so many years,” Clauvont began as he carded a hand through his hair. “To just suddenly retire and leave on a swift pilgrimage…”He shook his head, his brow crinkling in worry.

Thalia stretched her hand across the table to gently capture Clauvont’s hand into her own, squeezing it. “What troubles you about it, my dear?”

Clauvont sighed heavily. “I am not one to question the veracity of this, Halone only knows Ser Vaindreau de Rouchemande deserves his retirement, and I am sure Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin will be just as revered as the next Archimandrite,” he paused, his lips pressing into a frown almost as if he hesitated on his next words. “But I cannot help but wonder if there’s more to this than we knights were told. Something feels…off.”

Thalia searched his gaze for a moment before brining  his hand still hers to kiss. “Mayhap you are right, my dear but it will do you no good to let this worry consume you. You mustn’t let this give you any pause with your loyalty to the knights—to question the Archbishop and the former Archimandrite’s decision is likely to brand you as a heretic.”

Clauvont kissed his wife’s hand in return, his eyes searching her gentle gaze. “You are right, my love. I shouldn’t let this cloud my judgment.” He smiled sadly at his wife. “I suppose there’s not we can do about it anyways, the Heaven’s Ward is far beyond my reach.”

[linelpisffxiv]

FFXIVWrite 2024: Nonexistent

Mneme's life was full of struggles. Parents who ignored them until one small question turned them out. A blazingly obvious loophole keeping them trapped in a fight ring. Patrons who controled everything about their life outside without an ability to accept it.

And that's before they've had to deal with governments.

So being called an adventurer by the very opposite of who they were but also the same in some ways?

It gave them this chance. They have to keep the name Mneme close to their chest, but with a new brother and sister of sorts. The first person who understood the struggles they've dealt with and want to join them in fixing it instead of accepting the world as it is.

Their adventure started off small, stop their new sister's biological mother from killing her for laws that no longer exist. It led to something deeper involving the knights of the round and Thordan, thirteen people they killed without regret.

They remained steps ahead of Aymeric. By the time he heard about the plan, they were close to finding the secret of the amagamation of a primal Vaindreau, the dragon Fafnir.

For the first time, Mneme smiled, and felt relief.