#vauthry the carbuncle

[goodappleapyl]

Random Meeps headcanon #7

Vauthry can change his weight at will to prevent people from picking him up. He acts a bit like mjolnir in that regard. Generally he only allows Meeps or her children to handle him.

[voidsentprinces]

Alphinaud: No! NOnononono! Come on! Leave Vauthry to his trickery! WoL: Just. Need. A Torch. LET ME BURN IT FUCKING DOWN ALPHINAUD! DONT HOLD ME-- Carbuncle: *pulling on the ankle* Alphinaud: We're better than this. YOU are better than this. Plus, think of the CHAIS! WoL: We have an entire SETTLEMENT! WITH A GIANT JEWELRY TOWER! And a hooded TWINK leading it! The Chais can JOIN US! Alphinaud: You cannot burn down Eulmore! WoL: LET ME AT LEAST SLAP ONE OF THE JESTERS WITH AN OVERSIZED SALMON! IT'D BE FUNNY! Alphinaud: NO! WoL: FINE! Fuck. FINE! Let me go. We're leaving. I won't burn down Eulmore. Alphinaud: Very well. Carbuncle. Away! WoL: ...I'll burn down Gridania instead AND THEN COME BACK! Alphinaud: MY FRIEND, NO! WoL: YOUR FRIEND, YES! -- WoL: And thats why I am not allowed back to the Source. Y'shtola: And why you're living in Rak'tika now. WoL: Oh no, I am just visiting Rak'tika so I could get a giant salmon to slap a jester with. Y'shtola: After burning down, Eulmore? WoL: After burning down, Eulmore. Greater Serpent of Ronka: SCREE

[the-littlest-kojin]

What would your characters (you can pick who!) think of Vauthry the carbuncle?

Gloyn would love to fuss over the cute shiny Carbuncle! Until he started talking. She has the Echo, so she would be subjected to his grandstanding, and would prefer him to be squeaky as she fed him meol and rubbed his belly.

[ainarosewood]

Admiration

FFXIVWrite2021 Day 8 Prompt Adroit

Alphinaud cried out in agony as the Eulmorean soldier’s blade bit into his side.  The man viciously slid it out and aimed for his throat the pain of the wound robbing Alphinaud of the strength to cast a barrier.

The young Elezen braced himself for death, when suddenly the unmistakable golden shimmer of Adloquium surrounded him causing the blade to glance off harmlessly.  Haphazardly turning, the entranced soldier looked back in the direction the cast came from and began shuffling forward.  Only to double over retching as Bio II slammed into him followed by a Ruin and Ruin II.  Behind him stood a very concerned looking Aina the Viera watching him closely and keeping an eye of their surroundings for more entranced individuals.

Out of the corner of his eye Alphinaud could see a flickering of golden light as Eos, Aina’s Fairy Familiar rushed over to him and began healing what was left of the wound  from the healing properties of the Adloquium.  It never ceased to amaze him, her skill at the ancient Nymian arts.  If he had to be honest with himself he felt like a child playing at healer compared to her.

He had developed his Academician arts based off of the little that was known about those ancient arts especially after seeing her wield them all but effortlessly.  He knew that while the Veena almost always used the Red Mage art she had first and foremost been a healer.  Her first training had been in the now all but forbidden arts of White Magic.  But after the bloody banquet in Ul’dah the woman had begun in earnest studying Arcanima.  Which she not only picked up well but excelled at.  In turn she ended up working with a Lalafellan Marauder and revived the Nymian Scholar art.

He stood murmuring, “Thanks Aina,  come Vauthry is still somewhere above,”

Nodding a grim look on her face, Viera took the lead keeping an eye on their surroundings for any foes that may try to assault them from a forgotten corner.  As they continued on a group of the enthralled soldiers blocked their path.  

Drawing his tome and sending his carbuncle forward he stated, “Press on leave them to me, I’ll be more careful this time.”

Giving him a look she stated quietly, “You’d better,”

With that she bolted past leaving the soldiers to him.  He fought with all his strength making sure to keep his shields about him as often as possible.  After all he had developed his art to follow in her expert example.  He was not about to disappoint her by messing up and dying.  It still amazed him how quickly she had picked up and mastered both the Scholar and Summoner arts that had branched off from her study in Arcanima.  She truly was something to behold and he hoped one day to match her skill.

From above he vaguely heard the sounds of combat and realized there was still someone barring her path.  Shaking his head he focused on the foes before him knowing full well she was more than capable to deal with the threat no matter what magic she wielded.  Focusing on the fight before him it didn't take long for him to incapacitate the soldiers and begin his own ascent only to see the tail end of her battle with Ranjit.  As he arrived she glanced at him and nodded and they both rushed to Vauthry’s chambers to bring the fiend to justice.

[starswornoaths]

A Little Fall of Rain - Commission!

A commission for the always lovely @anorptron, featuring an equally lovely Sage! Thank you so much for your support! \o/

Commission info!

cw: mentions of injury, mentions of death

5.0 spoilers ahead! Emet/WoL

After the sin eater attack on Lakeland, the Scions are at an all time low. Their morale is shattered, the high of their emotional and personal victories stolen from them by Vauthry’s cruelty.

And Emet-Selch should have been happy about that, so why wasn’t he?

After raising up and guiding both the Allag and Garlean Empires with his own hands, after dedicating multiple lifetimes to serving as both the Architect that built such civilizations to soaring heights, and the Harbinger of their downfall, Emet-Selch was more than aware of the delicate balance one had to strike between benevolence and wrath. When the time was right to be gentle and nurturing to a fledgling civilization, and when to bring his might as a sorcerer of eld to bear in order to tear it down at its zenith. 

Despite being one of his more resounding successes in sowing those seeds of chaos, Vauthry had no such natural affinity for wielding his authoritarian power with any semblance of grace or dexterity. Even in victory, Vauthry couldn’t help but act as a gloating child, jeering from an overhead loud speaker attached to his personal airship. 

It didn’t even matter that they were on the same side, technically: the sound of it alone was enough to grate on Emet-Selch’s patience. 

Vauthry’s bellowing, made tinny through the speaker he was projected through, rang sharply in his ears even now, after those gaudy Eulmoran airships had long since taken off for brighter skies. Even with the heaviness of the rainfall that had happened during the battle, and the fat droplets that yet stubbornly continued to fall in the ensuing stillness, were nowhere near as weighty as the defeat they suffered, nor the weight of the insult that Vauthry heaped upon them, on top of it all.

Emet-Selch should be happy. He should be pleased with the progress that his plans have made, now that the final pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place. He should have taken this victory and rode its high as long as he could and just basked in it. The sin eaters besieging the already beleaguered people of the Crystarium— at the height of their hope, no less! — should have been the definitive moment of triumph that he had always thought it would be, his just reward for having played his part so perfectly.

So why did it all ring so hollow?

The wounded and dying soldiers, battered in both body and pride, barely paid him notice as he drifted about Fort Jobb as a wraith: silent, looming, practically gliding around the writhing and the eerily still alike. It was hardly a new experience, all but floating among the dead and the dying, and he paid it no mind.

“The tragedy that has befallen you is of your own making. Divine retribution for your defiance.” He distinctly recalled Vauthry taunting.

Cruel for both the callousness of the words and the lack of truth to them; those who dwelled on the First were hardly responsible for the circumstances that led them to this point— in particular when it was the Ancients that guided them to their fate, even before the Ancients themselves fully understood how they had arbitrated over their now fractured world.

They weren’t even people, these frail, fading fragments. It wasn’t their fault they couldn’t stand up to destiny. Not even the Ancients could, once.

They weren’t his concern, besides. Hawkish gold eyes scanned the crumpled forms in search of someone familiar. In search of one soul in particular, though if any of those other miscreants were scuttling about, they would do: they would all lead him back to Sage.

It was ultimately the mistrustful gunblade wielder that Emet-Selch found first. Just as well; judging by the purposeful strides he was taking, he was going somewhere in a hurry. Keen on tracking down the Warrior of Light amid the aftermath of such a struggle but not wanting to have to subject himself to this particular buffoon’s empty words and threats, the Ascian hung back and observed from the shadows, as he did best.

A ponderous frown marred his face when he realized that Thancred was not, in fact, approaching the Warrior of Light, but instead speaking with one of the less wounded Crystarium guards. What benefit of the doubt he might have been inclined to give the Scion was promptly dashed when he then moved on to checking in on that discarded little shard of Hydaelyn’s voice— she had a new name, he vaguely recalled with disinterest. With a huff of frustration, he moved on to the next Scion.

That sorceress provided more promising results, for a blessing, as she did not tarry in tracking Sage down— but then, she’d admittedly not had to look far, as he was helping one of the wounded to her for healing just as she had begun her search for him. Feeling charitable— or perhaps, pitying them when they were at their lowest, Emet-Selch silently decided that this would make them even for him ripping her out of the lifestream. 

Sage himself was unsurprisingly nondescript as he helped that granddaughter of the Exarch’s into one of the cots that had been haphazardly set up for triage of the battered battalion.

Y’Shtola clicked her tongue in admonishment, even as she helped ease Captain Lyna down with him. The moment Lyna was settled, Sage withdrew and awkwardly straightened— awkwardly, because of the way it seemed like he couldn’t quite straighten himself to his full height. As if he were too injured to do so.

“Get yourself situated in one of the empty cots, Sage. I’ll be with you as soon as—”

“I’m not wounded.” Sage lied, hands attempting to be subtle as they cradled his side.

“Sage. I’m not completely blind. Nor a fool besides.” Y’Shtola pursed her lips, displeased, even as she had already begun to examine Lyna more meticulously. “You need tending to.”

The Raen’s face crinkled in an almost endearing way. “It’s nothing that can’t wait.” He insisted, unmoving and uncompromising as ever.

After a moment of scrutiny from the corner of her eye, Y’Shtola’s shoulders slumped, ever so slightly, as if in defeat.

“I will not beg you to lean on me, Sage. If you say you are well enough, so be it.”

Even Sage seemed surprised at her words, gaze flitting to the other Scions scattered about the triage center. The young boy twin in the blue coat, he seemed the most fretful, even as he continued to weave healing magicks on a soldier lying on the cot before him, with the assistance of his carbuncle. His sister winced as she looked away. That card flinging fae lover was nowhere to be found. If Emet-Selch had cared to guess beyond his indignation, he might have conceded that the man was simply using his healing magic elsewhere. The gunblade wielder sat on one of the cots, under the watchful eye of that little Oracle girl, both of them strangely silent.

When it was clear no one was going to truly argue with him, Sage took his leave and scurried off with a relieved expression on his face. Curiously, the Scions only looked all the more troubled for his leaving, even as they made no move to go to him.

He said nothing, and for a moment longer, observed from a distance. It was a curiosity, wanting to know how the Scions took Sage so obviously wounded and limping off, even as he felt a low roiling anger in the depths of his belly at how none of them even spared him a second glance as he left. 

“I can’t heal stubbornness.” Y’Shtola all but growled, as if to herself, her focus on the injured Captain.

It surprised him to hear that frustration in her voice almost as much as her dismissal of Sage had been to begin with. 

“Sage doesn’t like relying on us, you know that.” Thancred spoke, his voice oddly soft for how brusque the man had been in all the time Emet-Selch had known him.

They must not have realized he was standing there yet, still so caught up in attending to the wounded and shoring up what tattered defenses they had.

“But we are not leaving him to suffer.” Alphinaud piped up firmly, even as he didn’t look away from his task. “Once we’ve tended to the more immediate cases, he is getting healed.”

“As if that were in doubt.” Alisaie snorted, almost indignant.

Emet-Selch’s frown deepened. They might have thought that was truly good enough, but the thought of Sage being left in obvious agony for any length of time, even for reasons like this, sat poorly with him. Even disregarding what physical wounds he had, it was clear that Sage was already in obvious agony from the light that he had already absorbed.

And his task was not yet done! None of them were! Even as wounded and bleached out beyond all recognition as Sage was, those who purported themselves to be his dearest friends would leave him languish because he’s stubborn? Unacceptable.

“Let this be a lesson to all those who would walk the path of sin— the wicked shall not inherit this world!” Vauthry’s words again echoed in his mind. On that one point, they both agreed.

The writing was on the wall: things were looking grim for the Warrior of Darkness and his cohorts. If there was ever a moment for him to determine that Sage’s cause was unworthy, his abilities lacking, it would, sensibly, be here. 

And Emet-Selch should have been happy about it, Zodiark take him. This should have been a moment to gloat.

If the Scions had at all noticed him at any point before, during, or after that, he didn’t stick around long enough to find out for himself. He had already melted into the dark, already uninterested in their petty meandering and their simpering, hand wringing uncertainty . Now that he knew where Sage was, and understood that he would not be able to well and truly enjoy this victory without knowing that his enemy was alright, there was nothing else for him to do but try to make sure Sage was hale and whole.

A complication in his plan, the Warrior of Light. Emet-Selch wasn’t supposed to care.

That fact didn’t stop him from easily catching up to Sage, didn’t stop him from emerging into the moonlight and making the effort to appear as though his arrival was entirely coincidental— or at least, antagonistic.

He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” He purred as though he happened upon Sage by complete accident.

The Raen met his gaze evenly; it would seem that there was no patience between either of them for ruses and games. Just this once, given the circumstances, Emet-Selch couldn’t find it in him to be bothered by Sage’s stoicism. It shocked them both when he reached for the Bard and caught his chin in his hand. Even as his own actions startled him, Emet-Selch refused to show it, tipping his own chin up to pointedly stare down his nose at the Warrior of Light.

“You can’t just flit to and fro with such injuries.” He clucked his tongue in admonishment, and he felt his nose wrinkle in displeasure of its own accord when Sage winced.

“...Yeah.” Sage agreed quietly. “Didn’t want to worry them, but...I’ve been better.”

That admission was enough to shock Emet-Selch down to his bones. Sage couldn’t say that to the Scions, but he could admit it to his enemy? For what? To what end? He scrambled to make sense of it— what angle was Sage trying to play, what advantage—

Sage flinched again when he tried to move, and practically bit his tongue when he jolted out of Emet-Selch’s grip to curl into himself, as if to try and shield his body from the pain. It was such a reactionary, in-the-moment movement that it would have been almost impossible to fake. 

He wouldn’t anyway, the thought occurred to him, even as he did not want it to.

Something akin to understanding, bone deep and centuries old, awakened in his chest when realization settled over him: like himself, Sage felt more comfortable being weak with someone who was an active threat to him than let himself be vulnerable in the company of his comrades. 

After a long moment where neither of them dared to move, Sage deflated around a sigh, and stole the breath from the Architect’s lungs altogether when he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the shoulder padding of his coat.

The contact made him seize up bodily in spite of himself. The two of them had always, always had distance between them, physically. It had been a safety precaution— on both their parts, he imagined— and it had been preferred. To have that line crossed, not with violence but with vulnerability, was a situation that he had never thought would come to pass. Most of all, because he never believed either of them would ever allow for such vulnerability to exist in the first place.

Most worrying of all, in particular for him, was that he was not repulsed by this new nearness, but instead bent his head down and curled, ever so slightly, into that horrifying new lack of space between them.

“...Sage?” Emet-Selch called his name quietly. He wasn’t sure whether he should be upset or not that his name felt natural to say, despite having never said it once before as anything but a curse, what few times he had said it at all.

He wasn’t even sure how that name felt on his tongue, when not wielded as a weapon to be brandished at the hero.

“Sorry.” The Bard mumbled, and swayed dangerously on his feet. “...Sorry—”

At the buckle of Sage’s knees, Emet-Selch’s arms were wrapped around him to keep him from collapsing onto himself in a heap, and though the motion made the Warrior of Light gasp in pain and clutch and claw at the back of the Ascian’s coat, Emet-Selch remained gentle, shushing him as he carefully knelt with Sage in his arms.

Every tender feeling he had buried since he had lost his first Imperial son rose to the surface, burning the otherwise numb and bitter bones of him. Even as he winced at the way it made the hollow of his chest ache, he held on just as tenderly to Sage, with no less care. In that moment, something inexplicable and undefinable had gripped his very soul, and something about the predicament they now found themselves in made Emet-Selch feel as though all he had in the world who might understand him was the man in his arms.

“Stubborn fool, playing at normalcy while you’re falling apart,” said the Architect, fond even in his insults. His voice was strangely thick with emotions he couldn’t name and daren’t examine. “What ever am I to do with you?”

Any response that Sage might have given him was cut off when he choked back a noise of pain again. He shifted, just barely, in Emet-Selch’s arms to ease the pressure off of his wounds, inadvertently pressing himself deeper in his enemy’s arms.

“Need to be strong for them.” Sage ground out, as if to chastise himself, through his clenched teeth. 

The words were half grumbled into the front of Emet-Selch’s coat, almost inaudible for what trickle of raindrops still pattered against their coats. Sage’s broad hands clutched at the back of his coat with such a desperation that he heard the thick cloth creak under the strain of his grip. He felt his heart squeeze in his throat. Even now, even beaten down so low, Sage would still wrestle with himself and rally every bit of strength he had in himself to fight. And for what? A group of ingrates that didn’t understand how much Sage mattered? Or if they saw, they did next to nothing to show it?

“No, you don’t.” He said darkly before he could stop himself. 

Sage looked up at him, but Emet-Selch was already overwhelmed, and avoided his gaze as he took a moment to swallow his heart. It still pressed hard against his throat when he spoke again, voice thick with everything he denied feeling.

“Do you not understand how tales work, hero?” He asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I didn’t spend entire lifetimes as Emperors that built the arts just for story structure to be ignored.”

“This isn’t a fairytale, Emet-Selch.” Sage shook his head, still trying— and failing— to keep himself from grimacing. 

“Isn’t it?” He challenged. “Or have you already forgotten your role, hero? This is your low point. Your rock bottom before the triumphant rise. This is no time for you to hide your wounds away and act tough, or else you won’t be ready for the finale.”

The silence that Sage answered him with stretched on, marked only by the faint pitter patter of raindrops trickling down from the heavens again, inconsistent and faint as they were. It barely registered to the two men huddled around one another. Almost nothing else mattered but them in that moment.

At that point, there wasn’t much left to matter outside of them, for how thoroughly beaten down and all but decimated the Crystarium’s resistance was.

Sage looked up at him, and it was so, so hard to hold that piercing gaze when he was looking up at him so imploringly. Those eyes were too familiar for him to dismiss as a stranger’s gaze, but too different to let himself believe that he was fine with settling for this shard of his former friend. 

Too enchanting to pull away from.

“If you keep staring at me so, hero...I might think you are expecting something.” Emet-Selch managed around the lump in his throat. 

With the ongoing history of Sage flustering at such ribbing, he’d been all but praying to Zodiark that another such instance would be enough to snap the Warrior of Light out of such a state. Anything to bring back that tinge of strangeness with this new-old friend of his.

“A kiss, maybe.” 

Sage’s lips had barely wrapped around the last of his words before the look on his face told Emet-Selch all he needed to know: he had not meant to say that. The slack, shocked expression, the way his body tensed impossibly more, even through the agony and the injury, was enough for Emet-Selch to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was no ploy, no feint to try and catch his enemy on the back foot; in truth, Emet-Selch wasn’t even sure there was anything Sage could do in his condition, even if the doubt had been given any chance to take proper root in his mind.

Sage truly meant it. He wanted to kiss him. He might have laughed had he not been sent reeling by the revelation.

“And why would you want that, exactly? From me, no less?” He snorted before he could stop himself. When Sage tried to duck his head, Emet-Selch’s gloved hand shot out to hold his face there by the chin to force him to maintain their eye contact; if he couldn’t look away, then neither could Sage. “Ah, ah, ah, honesty is preferable among allies, is it not?”

“‘M no fool, Emet-Selch. I know this means all bets are off between us.” Sage ground out around another wince of pain. “Is it so awful to want a soft goodbye?”

Somehow, despite how adept he was at laying out blueprints for a plan aeons in advance, the thought hadn’t even occurred to the Architect, to end their alliance here. After one loss, even one as catastrophic as this? Even as Sage’s purported enemy, that struck him as grossly uncharitable, even were he to not account for the victories that had led the Scions here.

“Were you not listening, hero?” He sneered down his nose at the battered Bard. “I told you. This is your low point. Your rock bottom before the triumphant rise.”

When Sage opened his mouth— to retort, to gawk, it didn’t matter— Emet-Selch sealed it with his own.

Despite the man asking for it, Emet-Selch expected some level of resistance, some sort of tension, something to imply that Sage had some sort of misgiving. Something to tell him that this was wrong, that they were wrong for bridging that divide between enemies in search of something softer. 

There was no sign to be found, and its absence doomed them both.

Sage all but melted into him, those large hands of his moving in the scant space between them to clutch and claw at his robes, to pull him closer, as if breathing him in would be enough to mend the wounds and the light that have ravaged his body. His grip was so strong, Emet-Selch could hear the leather and the dense fabric of his coat creak between his fingertips. For a moment, it felt as though it were his heart that Sage was squeezing for the rush of endearment that hit him. It was enough for him to cup Sage’s face in his gloved hand, enough to inspire gentleness in him that he had long forgotten.

When had he last kissed someone, and so earnestly? His last wife, when he was the young Garlean Emperor, perhaps, but even then, his attachments to mortals were typically ephemeral, fleeting. He had made the mistake of loving the families he had helped to build, only for them to be lost to him all over again. As if Zodiark himself punished him for straying, for forgetting his first family, from an all but forgotten time when he didn’t know the fear of losing those he loved. 

Sage should have been no different. He should have been a passing curiosity, a flickering comet streaking across the night sky, momentary and easily forgotten. Not this...this aching, raw reminder of the person he used to be, even as every detail that did not match the friend he remembered was as a knife to his heart. 

There was a passing temptation, an itch, beneath Emet-Selch’s skin to rip his gloves off, to feel the Warrior of Light’s skin and scales beneath his fingertips— but that would require him letting go of Sage. The thought of it rankled something dark and possessive, awakened that long slumbering want to covet and keep. 

That wriggling want nestled itself beside that longstanding ache for the one that came before, the one that had shattered into so many fragments and scattered them among the stars. That this fragment was warm and familiar and solid was enough to stir Zodiark into pulling hard at the back of his mind— remember. Remember who you have lost. Remember who I can yet save.

Emet-Selch buried all of it— the whispers of his Lord, the almost-familiarity, the passing impulse, and his fingers, all in Sage’s hair when he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. It was hard to block out all of those warring thoughts, the thundering of his own heart, all of it, but the taste of Sage on his tongue made that struggle worthwhile.

In truth, it was harder for either of them to know where one ended and the other began anymore— or what any of this meant for them going forward. 

It startled him, how reluctant he was to pull away from Sage. By all rights, it should have been nothing but a performative gesture, a hollow token of false affection. It should have made him feel nothing. As it stood, it felt like he were drowning, it felt like he could not breathe for fear of letting even more of Sage into his very being, but he couldn’t help but gasp deeper between kisses. Intoxicated, he could only let Sage rest his weight bodily against him and hold him as tightly as he dared for Sage’s injuries.

With some paltry space between them, Emet-Selch thought, however foolishly, however desperately, that he might regain some of his good sense. But then Sage took longer than him to open his eyes, and oh, but that dreamy, dazed expression and the slow blink at him was almost enough to inspire further foolishness and kiss him again. He was fearful that he would never stop, and they would never get anywhere.

The expression on Sage’s face made it plain that there was something he wanted to say, but a worrying pop from somewhere around his hanging ribs sent him flinching as far away as the circle of Emet-Selch’s arms allowed him with a gasp of pain. It was enough to remind Emet-Selch that he was in desperate need of care. Care that he had run from when it was offered— the sweet fool. Such a pitiful state didn’t suit him.

When Emet-Selch tutted in gentle admonishment, Sage stilled, and again, those eyes captivated him, even wide and gawking as they were. Even the facade of irritability couldn’t withstand such an earnest expression, and he gentled, the hand that had held Sage’s face close once more bridging the distance between them, molding to his cheek. Even as he couldn’t feel much through his glove, he smoothed his thumb back and forth across Sage’s cheekbone.

“Mark me, hero,” Emet-Selch said softly, in the most authoritative tone he could muster, even knowing that he couldn’t muster much in the wake of the tumultuous tides of his heart. “This maudlin pall ill suits you. This is not the end— not of your struggles, and thus, not of our truce.” 

Sage’s expression twisted into one of pain again— emotional and physical both— and a part of Emet-Selch hated that he had to put such a weighty mantle on his shoulders again. Even on opposing sides of the conflict, it was undeniable that the both of them were the Scions of their people. The last bastion of hope and love and grief, meant to stem the tide of the other. 

Despite the inevitability of their fate, Sage was brilliant enough to make Emet-Selch dare to hope, even through the tempering and his own resignation at their destined clash.

And the Warrior of Light needed that hope to be rekindled in him, to spur him to go on, Emet-Selch realized, and made a point to look down his nose at Sage as he gripped his chin to force his gaze to stay on him.

“If you’re so desperate to beg your enemy for a kiss, then let me promise you another, when you can show me the night sky in Kholusia.”

Sage’s eyes widened impossibly further. His mouth opened to try and speak, but even through feeling the muscle of his jaw as he tried to work out what words to say, Emet-Selch didn’t let go of his chin.

“Sage!” Another voice called out breathlessly, shattering whatever spell they had cast on one another.

It was enough to get Sage to wrench his head free of Emet-Selch’s grasp. He snapped his focus to his approaching comrade— the astrologian one, for the life of him, Emet-Selch couldn’t find it in him to care enough to remember his name.

“Urianger—” Sage gasped.

Ahh, that had been his name, then. Or perhaps a choked back sneeze. Emet-Selch didn’t particularly care one way or the other in that moment.

Though a part of Emet-Selch was relieved to have the trance they had fallen into broken, it still startled him how much of himself was so reluctant to extricate himself from Sage; he had thought that the moment he remembered himself, it would be repulsed by his own behavior, his own fondness— weakness— for Sage, but even in that moment as he saw the elezen approach, he could only mourn the end of this moment for what it was.

Still, it wouldn’t do to let that weakness be visible— as the Ascian Architect, Emet-Selch had a reputation to uphold, after all. Though he, too, had turned his head in the direction of the approaching Scion, he glanced back at Sage, still loosely in his grip, from the corner of his eye. Half out of habit, and half out of fondness, the corner of his lips curled into a grin on its own.

“Best get to it, then, hero.” He said. “I’m an impatient paramour. Tick tock.”

Sage couldn’t stop himself from tightening his hold on the front of Emet-Selch’s coat in a desperate bid to keep him there, even as he knew better than to hope that the Architect wouldn’t fade into the shadows, out of his reach.

Again.

All the same, he clung to that comforting, somehow familiar presence until it literally slipped through his fingers, wisps of smoke and shadow and not of this world. A grim reminder of their differences— and of what fate will have in store for them, should Sage fail to hold up his end of their agreement.

He opened his hand, staring down at his empty palm, and tried not to contemplate such grim thoughts. 

When Sage tried to stand on his own, he was reminded of the other wounds he bore that forced him to his knees in the first place. For a blessing, rather than having to brace for crashing back to earth after barely managing more than a crouch, it was Urianger’s arm looped through his arms, around his back, that kept him from that jarring impact.

“Be at ease— I have thee.” Urianger reassured, the arm not holding him upright as he straightened glimmering with starlight and gently laid over Sage’s chest. “Thou mayest seek the comfort of the Architect, as is thy prerogative, I wouldst only beg thee to not do so to escape relying on thy friends.”

“Uri—” Sage winced, tempted to avert his eyes.

“I beseech thee, hark to mine words: we art here for thou, as comrades and family alike. We always have been, even as we hath failed to support thee as we should have.”

Maybe it was Urianger’s healing magic, but even his words acted as a balm on Sage’s battered soul. Reluctant as he might be to believe it, he could only look at the evidence— and when he forced his head up at the sound of more approaching footsteps to see Y’Shtola, Alphinaud, and Thancred in tow, he couldn’t help but believe that they truly wanted to bridge that gap that had always been there, between them.

“Forgive our delay— we only waited so long as we did for the Crystarium healers to arrive.” Y’Shtola spoke, her voice much gentler than it had been when Sage left them at the triage tents. “Alisaie is preparing a bed for you with Chessamile as we speak. Come, let us help you.”

“No need for the fuss—” Sage tried to insist, when Thancred, swift as the wind itself, swooped in— quite literally— to lift Sage’s legs so he was suspended between himself and Urianger’s efforts.

“Sage, you might not open up to us as much as we might hope, but we’re not stupid. There is absolutely a need for the fuss. Now let us fuss.”

Alphinaud nodded in agreement, but his efforts were focused on joining his healing magic to Urianger’s. Even just the immediate relief of not feeling any of the pain from his wounds was enough to flood Sage’s every sense with contentment, though that feeling was immediately chased with the sheer exhaustion he hadn’t been able to feel through the pain and the stubbornness and his own aching heart, twisted and conflicted and longing as it was for a living shadow now beyond his reach.

“All will be well, Sage. Thou needs but have faith.” Urianger promised him, as he had done for Ryne before him.

As he faded off, rocked to sleep by the gentle swaying of Urianger’s and Thancred’s coordinated footfalls, Sage made a desperate wish: let me one day believe that, even as he had just enough faith to fall asleep in their company and know that he was safe and taken care of. Between the healing magic and the calm that swept through him, it was easy to drift away to slumber, even as he could feel the little pinpricks of raindrops tapping at his skin and scales.

He paid it no mind. What was a little fall of rain, after all?

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #29: Names

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

WARNING: Spoilers for throughout Shadowbringers MSQ!

She wondered, sometimes, if her parents had had another name for her, one carefully considered and picked. Would she have been named after a relative? A grandmother, perhaps, or a great-aunt or even a close family friend. Perhaps a name from a story, one that caught her mother’s fancy, or maybe something her father heard in the marketplace. Was it a name they had always called her? Was it a name they had whispered to themselves in the dead of night after the soldiers of Eulmore came for her?

Or, from the moment of her birth, with a tuft of blonde hair on her head and fathomless cerulean blue eyes, had she only ever been Minfilia?

To General Ran’jit and the soldiers of Eulmore, she had only been Minfilia or Oracle of Light or, more simply, Oracle; perhaps, my lady to the nervous new recruits or the respectful veterans. Lady Minfilia, to the servants who came to her luxurious prison deep beneath the City of Final Pleasures with food or fresh laundry or a set of books (approved, and censored as necessary, by Ran’jit, or more likely by one of his lieutenants). Once, when she had been presented to Lord Vauthry when she had been…eight? Perhaps nine summers? She had been addressed as Lady Oracle and oh, she had hated it, the way it oozed off Vauthry’s tongue, condescending and triumphant. Something to call a pretty caged bird.

But it hadn’t been incorrect. She had been a pretty caged bird.

The superfluous titles had mostly fallen away after Thancred had stolen her away from Eulmore and Ran’jit possessive grip. Oracle of Light became, primarily, not a term of address, just a description of who and what she was. Minfilia, though…

That name suddenly acquired a new weight.

To Thancred, and Urianger, and Y’shtola and Alphinaud and Alisaie, Minfilia was someone else, first and foremost. They had known the first Minfilia, the original, the savior from another world who gave up her identity and her life to save Norvrandt from the Flood of Light.

When Ran’jit, and many other residents of Norvrandt, looked at her, they saw a legacy, an unbroken line of girl-children warriors against the sin-eaters, born to fight and die and do it all over again in the next life. When Thancred looked at her, he saw regrets and missed chances, the shadow of a woman for whom he had wished he had done more. Urianger looks at her with sorrow in his eyes, too, but that doesn’t stop him from speaking kindly to her, to throwing open his library to her voracious appraisal.

It’s not until the Crystal Exarch brings the Warriors of Light of the Source to the First that she began to feel…well, herself.

Rereha accompanies her for their share of the chores the pixies give them in Lydha Lran. After the third bit of ridiculous busywork, she was tired and frustrated, and ready to scream. As one of their pixie ‘hosts’ gave the pair their third task, however, she remembered a story she read in Urianger’s library, from a bookend of Lakeland fables.

“I’ve never done this before,” she said earnestly, making her eyes as big as possible, her expression as innocent. “Could you show us how to do it properly?”

Rereha took her cue from her, the dwar—lalafell smiling and nodding agreement. “Aye,” she said, “we don’t want to cause a mess!”

The pixie had narrowed their eyes at them, before slowly nodding. “Well, all right then,” they said, “you do it like this.”

And after the pixie had shown them how—

“Oh, I’m not sure I understood, I’m so sorry. Could you show us again?”

And again, and again, until the chore had been done. The pixie had sulked as their friends whooped and laughed and lauded her for a trick well played.

As they had gone to rejoin the others, Rereha had said, “That was brilliant, Minfilia!”

She had blushed and shrugged, suddenly shy and unsure once again. “I had read about something similar, once,” she said, “a story about a fox named Reynard outwitting his foes and tricking his friends and laughing the whole time.”

“Well, you might not have been laughing,” said Rereha, grinning, “but that was well done, little fox kit.”

Synnove had been the next to give her a nickname, on the journey back to the Crystarium. The older woman had been patiently answering her questions about the Source, about arcanima, about the carbuncles. How did she make them? What did they eat?

“Technically, anything,” Synnove had laughed. “As aether constructs, they don’t have the digestive system of a beastkin. But they do have preferences, and what I cook for myself, I feed to them, too.” She had gently stroked Galette’s tails, the emerald carbuncle draped around her neck. “Be careful with this one, duckling, she’s got a sweet tooth the size of a mountain and no shame in getting her next fix!”

She had tilted her head curiously at Synnove as they had walked. “Duckling?”

“It’s something I call the baby first year arcanists,” Synnove had said, a rueful smile on her lips. “The braver ones follow the senior assessors and professors around like ducklings, quacking questions and gobbling up the answers like bread crumbs, though their shier classmates trail along, too. If you don’t want to be called that—”

“No!” she said, then almost immediately ducked her head. “No, I don’t mind. I rather like it, actually. I like the idea of being a student.”

Synnove had smiled, warm and gentle. “Well, then, so long as you don’t mind, I’ll keep calling you that.”

Her third nickname had been straightforward. A few days of walking under true sunlight in Il Mheg, Lakeland, and then wandering the Crystarium had turned her pale skin bright red and achy. Dancing Heron had come across her in the market, taken one look at her miserable expression, and hustled her to Heron’s room in the Pendants.

“Oh, poor Sunshine,” the roegadyn had said ruefully, braiding her hair out of the way before helping to slather her face and shoulders in a thick, clear salve called aloe vera. “You aren’t the first person here in the Crystarium to get a sunburn.”

She hadn’t reacted to the name, mostly because like the others, she liked it. It was just about her. She had also had more important things on which to focus. “The sun can burn you?” she’d said, absolutely horrified.

Heron had laughed. “Aye, it can! Too much of a good thing can quickly turn bad, even the sun. Pale skin especially is more susceptible, but even someone as dark as I am needs to be careful; on you, at least, it’s easy to see when the damage occurs! Synnove and Rere have been showing the folks at the Mean how to create sunscreen—that’s a cream you put on your skin that helps prevent a burn from happening at all. In the meantime, we’ll get you a wide-brimmed hat, and you’ll need to keep putting on the aloe vera. That’ll soothe the burn and the itch when the skin starts healing, and keep your skin moisturized, too.”

Oh, the itch had been awful. And the peeling skin had just been…gross.

Alakhai, of course, had eventually given her a nickname, too. The Xaela was quiet, in the way of someone who just didn’t prefer to talk, at least not when it wasn’t necessary. In the shadows of the Rak’tika Greatwood, Alakhai had shown her a few more knife tricks, the proper way to bend and flick her wrists to get her knives to dance.

“Thancred’s good with his blades,” Alakhai had said quietly, demonstrating the movement in slow motion, “and he didn’t do half-bad training you. But he hasn’t been as short as you or I in a long time, günj, and there are just some things he can’t properly demonstrate.”

She heard ‘günj,’ but in her mind, thanks to the Blessing of Light, she knew the word meant princess. It had slipped out, the same way it had with Synnove and Heron, tinged with soft, genuine affection, and again, she decided not to draw attention to it.

Instead, she went through the move Alakhai had just shown her slowly, at first. When Alakhai nodded, she did it again at full speed, her knives driving into the target at neck height on an adult male hume with the right and at kidney height with the left.

Alakhai had grinned, proud and vicious at once. “Very good, günj. Now, again, and again, until it’s as second nature to you as all the rest.”

It had been those nicknames, bestowed on her without a second thought, for a girl they had barely known, that had helped sustain her through Amh Araeng, when the doubts began to eat at her and who she actually was. Those nicknames, that were just for her, that rang in her head when the first Oracle of Light, the first Minfilia, had asked her what her choice was. When she accepted the chance to be her own person.

Red hair and grey eyes. A surge of power, of Light that was gentle and warm. A purpose, and the determination to carry it out.

Thancred, after they had vanquished the Lightwarden of Amh Araeng, had taken her aside privately and said, “There are no words to express the depths of my sorrow for how I’ve treated you these last years. I will do better. I hope one day you can forgive me, but know that you don’t have to. Not know, not ever. That’s my burden to bear.”

She had thought he had hated her for so long, but he had been sincere. She knew she could trust him, and the forgiveness…the forgiveness would come one day.

After all, he had given her a name.

And as Ryne well knew, names were precious things indeed.

[goodappleapyl]

*aggressive google searches about how to propose to your crush*

(given that there is no Google in ffxiv, this is my interpretation of the prompt xD I hope this suffices!)

Since his second chance at life as a carbuncle, Vauthry was subjected to many new experiences. Eating from a bowl of the floor was his least favourite as a man of his station. Random people of every walk of life complimenting what an unusually beautiful creature he was being the most tolerable, though he wished it came with less physical interaction, especially in the form of small children trying to manhandle him.

The most unusual result of his new form was that people felt the need to talk at him, believing that he was just an ordinary, unintelligent aetheric construct. Many had approached him as he lounged in the sun and spilled their hearts to him, assuming that he could not talk back. He could, but those not blessed with the echo could not understand him and his responses came in the form of unintelligible squeaking. Vauthry found it endlessly amusing that he could insult his audience's intelligence without them being aware.

The two most interesting that had approached him were the pathetic suitors of his benefactor, Meeps. The former Crystal Exarch and the 'Second Promise' of the land Vauthry currently found himself in, Tural. Both had approached him as he languished in the shade of a palm tree, seeking counsel on how to ask for his patron's hand in Eternal Bonding.

The Second Promise would have been his choice if he had any say in the matter. Given he was tied to her side now, he would much rather his benefactor bond with the local equivalent to royalty.

Vauthry wasn't even sure why the former Exarch even bothered to try. It never failed to surprise him that his opinion of the Lord of the Crystarium could fall any lower. Common sense should have told him that, given his history with Meeps, his chances of a successful courtship were non-existent.

Alas, for both sops, neither were worthy in the eyes of his beloved patron. He had tried to explain this to them in his capacity to do so, despite them both lacking the ability to understand him.

[goodappleapyl]

Random Meeps headcanon #5

I decided that Meeps' shard on the First was Vauthry's mother, solidifying her connection to the former Lightwarden.

It fits my maternal theme for her, especially if the theory that she is also Forgiven Obscenity (the final boss in the Mt Gulg dungeon). A mother continuing to protect her child, even after becoming a Sin Eater.

Now the roles are reversed. Vauthry acts more as a paternal figure for Meeps and watches over her and her two children, albeit as a carbuncle most of the time.

[goodappleapyl]

Hi there!

Hi! Hello, I am Midd, better known as meepsmun. Writer for my ffxiv oc, Meeps Ior and her family.

About the Mun

Some things about me before you interact:

I’m 30+, so please, do not interact if you are a minor.

Happily married to Mr meepsmun.

I have often debilitating depression and anxiety.

I’ve had issues in the past interacting with people outside of my blog due to my personality, so interact at your own risk.

On to Meeps...

Some basic information about Meeps:

She is currently 33 years old.

She is 4’9”.

She was born Fae Ior, hence the name of her son being Fae'a Ior.

Her favourite food is fish paste cake. 

Her white highlights are natural.

Despite showing all the signs, she is NOT a Warrior of Light. Her “blessing” is not from Hydaelyn.

She has a golden carbuncle named Vauthry that eats meol kibble.

[A Link to the current list of Ships]

[Random Meeps headcanon #1] [Random Meeps headcanon #2] [Random Meeps headcanon #3] [Random Meeps headcanon #4] [Random Meeps headcanon #5] [Random Meeps headcanon #6] [Random Meeps headcanon #7] [Random Meeps headcanon #8]

Mini fics

[Dawntrail Mini fic - Meeps x Koana] [Endwalker Mini fic - Meeps x Estinien] [Stormblood Mini fic - Asahi]

More Meeps info below~

Relationships

Meeps' Children

She is the mother of two beautiful children: Fae’a (currently 11) and Marie (currently 6). They have different fathers.

Fae'a Ior

Fae'a is Meeps' oldest child. He is currently 13 years old. Fae'a was born before the events of ARR. His father is Elidibus.

Marie Ior

Marie is Meeps' youngest child. She is currently 8 years old. Marie was born post-Dragonsong war. Her father is Charibert.

Past Relationships

Meeps has had two past relationships: Charibert (it’s complicated) and Elidibus (it's extremely complicated). Elidibus is the father of Fae’a, Charibert is the father of Marie.

Charibert

Meeps meets Charibert during A Realm Reborn, when the Ishgardian Inquisition becomes involved in the investigation into heretics at Camp Dragonhead. There is a spark between them, but nothing happens and the two part ways. 

They next meet during Heavensward, when Charibert had become a member of the Heavens’ Ward. The spark is reignited and the two begin an affair. Meeps was very much in love with Charibert at the time and outwardly, Charibert appeared to be the perfect partner. Yet, in the end, it turned out to be a lie. Charibert had been using Meeps as a means to get information on the Scions. Meeps gladly spoke to him, trusting him and seeing it as him taking an interest in herself and her companions. 

By the time the truth was revealed to Meeps, she was already pregnant with Marie. Meeps chose not to tell Charibert of her pregnancy and so he died without knowing he had fathered a child.

Elidibus/Themis

Meeps’ relationship is, simply put, extremely complicated and sadly, one of tragedy. To explain it fully, we have to go back to ancient times, to Amaurot. 

In the world unsundered, Meeps was an ancient by the name of Selene. Selene was the wife of Elidibus. The two were very much in love. When the time came for Elidibus to become the heart of Zodiark, he fused a part of his soul with his beloved Selene, so that they would never be separated.

It is this shard that gives Meeps her “blessing”, which gets her mistaken for a WoL. It is also this shard that allows Elidibus to recognise her. Except Elidibus never sees Meeps as Meeps. He recognises her as his wife, Selene. He is convinced that when the rejoining is complete, she will become the woman he loves once again and remember the life they once had together. Despite this, Meeps has his son, Fae’a, tying the two together even more. 

Following his death, Meeps begins dreaming of her life as Selene, showing her the past life Elidibus desperately wanted her to remember.

[goodappleapyl]

Meeps x G'raha headcanon #1

I decided the main thing that brings Meeps and G'raha together is Meeps being emotionally exhausted but being too stubborn to reach out for help. She believes she has to do it all by herself and prove that she is alright because if she isn't, people will think that she is a bad mother. After she almost turned into a blasphemy over everything to do with Elidibus and still struggling with that and dreams of her past life, she's terrified people think she isn't a fit mother for her children. Vauthry can see she is struggling and encourages her to reach out for help. He doesn't like G'raha, but it is very obvious that G'raha cares for Meeps and will jump at the chance to help her in any way he can.

I got the idea from Meeps lamenting that she wishes she was strong enough to keep Vauthry summoned as Innocence so that he could help more, as he can't do much as a carbuncle. Vauthry chastises her for focusing on the 'if only' and tells her to seek out actual help.

She reluctantly calls G'raha, he mentions how busy he has been in getting the Students of Baldesion back on their feet and Meeps tries to use it as an excuse to hang up, but she's nudged into telling him the reason she has called him. While she's telling him how much she has been struggling, he teleports to her and turns up at her door.

[goodappleapyl]

Random Meeps headcanon #2

Meeps' carbuncle, Vauthry, is actually the Lightwarden himself. She siphoned his aether into auracite from the Warrior of Light. That auracite is hidden down the spine of her codex.

Meeps has worked out the formulae required to reconstruct his Lightwarden form, but does not have the aetherpool required to maintain it for extended periods of time. Therefore she uses the formulae for the carbuncle body instead. He takes the form of a very sparkly golden carbuncle, with blue eyes.

As a carbuncle, Vauthry cannot speak in a way ordinary people can understand. Those blessed with the echo however, can hear his voice. Both Meeps and her son, Fae'a can converse with him. Marie cannot and it is unclear at this point if she will awaken the echo or not.

Vauthry eats meol kibble made out of synthetic meol, produced for him by researchers in Sharlayan.

Vauthry can still summon his sword wings when threatened.

Meeps can summon Vauthry at full power in his Lightwarden form as her personal Limit Break. This has the side effect of causing the sky to be flooded by primordial light whilst he is summoned.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #2: The Choices We Make

Prompt: Bargain | Master Post | On AO3

Note: Spoilers for Shadowbringers MSQ and Eden.

“Synnove? May I speak with you?”

Synnove looked up from her grimoire, lifting her quill from the array in an unconscious gesture to keep from potentially smearing the aetheric ink. She blinked a few times and shook her head to banish the mental cobwebs of working on arcanima for multiple bells. Once she felt more certain about where and when she was, she smiled and set down her grimoire to the side so the ink could dry. “Of course, Ryne,” she said, patting the spot next to her.

The redhead plopped down on the blanket, smoothing her skirt as she settled herself. Tyr took the opportunity to be free of acting as Synnove’s bookrest to crawl into Ryne’s lap—or at least get as much of his front half into it as he could. Ryne obediently snuggled him, scratching behind his ears, and Tyr started up his brass bell purr.

Synnove waited patiently for Ryne to gather her thoughts. The Empty was quiet, but no longer the eerie quiet of total desolation; running water susurrated not far from their camp, and in the distance, Eden and its engine-heart thrummed under the stars.

Finally, Ryne spoke up, voice hesitant: “Do you ever wonder if it was all worth it? I mean…” She chewed on her lower lip as she stroked Tyr’s head. “Everything that led us here. All the good and the bad and the in between. Do you ever wonder? Do you ever wish you could do it differently?”

Synnove rocked back a little, startled despite herself, before she leaned back over to wrap an around Ryne’s shoulders. The young girl burrowed in, both for the comfort and the warmth: even a desert of primordial Light was still a desert at night.

“Of course I do,” the Highlander said quietly. “There are so many things, and sometimes it’s overwhelming to think about them all. Mental hurts and physical hurts.”

The Fall of Ala Mhigo and Carteneau. Losing her uncle and grandfather. Losing friends, sometimes forever. Zenos’s sword in her belly, the aether of three then four then five Lightwardens eating her alive.

“But that’s what makes us people,” Synnove continued, resting her cheek on Ryne’s hair. “The doubts, the regrets, the what ifs. Of course we wonder what could have been, if we’d made a different choice, if fate had been a little kinder. Did we try hard enough? Was there another way?”

“Sometimes I wish I could have convinced Ran’jit to help us,” Ryne said, nearly stumbling over the words. “He wasn’t—he hadn’t always been so cruel. I wish that I could have made the right argument, the one where he’d help me escape Vauthry. Or, later, after Thancred rescued me, that he’d turn against him.”

Synnove nodded against Ryne’s head. “And there’s the rabbit hole. Thinking like that, it drives a person mad. Too many variables, too many influences, what’s the one thread to pluck to unravel it all?”

Ryne hummed tunelessly, continuing to pet Tyr’s head; the carbuncle was starting to list into sleep, head drooping forward to push into her belly. Finally, she said, “Do you think that’s what happened with Emet-Selch?”

“I think it was part of it,” Synnove said slowly. “Grief, too. Overwhelming, maddening grief, just festering for millennia.” Drily: “The tempering probably didn’t help much, either.”

Ryne giggled despite herself.

“There’s plenty about the man we’ll never know,” Synnove continued. “And that kind of speculation is maddening in and of itself. Here’s the thing, though: how much else changes when you try to turn the bad to good, or at least lessen it? How many of the good things suddenly vanish?”

Rereha and Heron and Alakhai, the sisters of her heart. Her carbuncles, her beloved mischievous darlings. The joy of solving her first mathematics problems, the wonder and delight of arcanima. The Scions: Minfilia and Y’shtola, Thancred and Urianger, Lyse and Papalymo, Alisaie and Alphinaud, Tataru and Arenvald, and all the rest of their own still home on the Source. Her brilliant, mad family at the Guild. Aymeric, the love of her life.

Summer storms in Limsa Lominsa. Aunt Angharad’s bone-crushing hugs. Fireworks at Moonfire, candy at All Saint’s, kisses under the mistletoe at Starlight.

Defending Eorzea from the XIVth Legion. Ending the Dragonsong War. Freeing Doma and Ala Mhigo and inspiring renewed resistance throughout the conquered Garlean provinces. Pushing back the Light, so the stars could shine on Norvrandt once more.

“The journey is long, and painful,” Synnove murmured, staring up at the sunless sea glittering overhead, “and gods, sometimes it’s just bloody unfair. Why me, why us, why not someone else. And the journey forward will likely be just as difficult. But I think, if given the choice, I wouldn’t do it over. It wasn’t easy getting here, but I like exactly where I am.”

“Me, too,” Ryne said, hugging her. “Thank you, Synnove.”

“Very welcome, Ryne.”

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

[goodappleapyl]

Random Meeps headcanon 7.5

Vauthry himself can become an immovable object, but the auracite he is tied to is not. It can usually found hidden down the spine of Meeps' codex.

Random Meeps headcanon #7

Vauthry can change his weight at will to prevent people from picking him up. He acts a bit like mjolnir in that regard. Generally he only allows Meeps or her children to handle him.