#viera armour

[moominchan]

Final Fantasy XIV Las Vegas Fanfest Glamoured To Life Cosplay Walk

Watch the whole thing here! Starts at 8:56:50!

Facebook: Luna Lorrain Instagram: ruuna_070 Twitter: ruuna_070 Twitch: moominchan

[ladyinthebluebox]

if you're having a bad day just. leave your Rook standing near the edge of smth & watch them being a silly billy for a while. it won't fix you but it might make you smile.

[takohebi]

Azujamiyuu in my ffxiv glams :3

[twilishark]

My Branch. Her Sapling

Some old gposes from Buntober last year! Il Mheg truly has to be one of my fav locations in ShB 

[lightweaverleporine]

He has fallen. And he chooses not to get up.

[st-hedge]

*thinking reaaaaallly hard* bunny nier….. but like armour outfit….. impractical silly lingerie armour…. Bunny….. viera “armour”….. yes YES

[myreia]

Open Arms

—chapter 2: lead from the heart

Rating: Teen Characters: Aureia (WoL), Thancred, Arenvald, Aenor, Clemence, Coultenet, Hoary Boulder Pairings: Aureia x Thancred (pre-relationship) Chapter Words: 5,122 Summary: After time away, Aureia returns to the Rising Stones to find a party in full swing. Reluctant though she is, she cannot help but be swept into the open arms of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn—and partake in a friendly sparring match. Prompt: iv. heal | harmony Chapters: one • two Read on AO3

“Well, now,” Hoary Boulder proclaims loudly, hands on his hips. “Will this do?”

Aureia lingers at the back of the group—arms folded, hair tucked behind her ears, the warmth of alcohol fluttering in her stomach—and watches with an amused smile. They’ve spent the better portion of the last bell wandering up and down the length of Mor Dhona, drinks in hand, high on laughter and good company as they search for the right place for this incidental sparring match.

Outside the Rising Stones the fortress is as busy as it always is, bustling with its unique rhythms. The aetheryte is an exceptional shade of blue today, its azure crystal glinting in the gloom-free summer sky. The central plaza has its usual crowd of unexpected sorts, and more than one chocobo and rider can be spotted flying over the high walls. Adventurers from all over Eorzea gather here, wandering the markets and chatting with their favourite merchants before trundling up the steps to Rowena’s café. A Limsan pirate telling stories to a captivated group of Doman children, an Ul’dahn priest selling dubious alchemical reagents out of the back of a wagon, conjurers in Gridanian livery practicing black magic down an alleyway, a Viera paladin in Ishgardian armour…

The camp-turned-outpost-turned-city attracts the unconventional and the eccentric, something which she has always found fascinating.

Which includes all of us, she thinks, glancing at Thancred. He’s taken a similar position to her across the way, leaning casually against a rocky outcropping. He tosses a dagger in one hand, flipping it around idly with accurate precision as he observes the others. They’ve ended up in a disused courtyard not far away from the main plaza, where stone and crystal jut through the walls. Whatever pavement used to be here has eroded away, leaving behind a perfect square of grass and clover.  

“Hm.” Coultenet throws out a hand from the front of the procession, stopping Aenor in her tracks. He bows his head, fingers clutching the brim of his hat, and steps out onto the grass. He stands still, eyes narrowed, surveying the square with a keen eye—then jumps up and down, crossing the grass with a series of hops until he has reached the other side. “From all appearances, this looks to be fine grass indeed! I hereby do declare: for a duel, this grass shall do!”

Aenor bursts into a fit of laughter, doubling over and clutching her stomach. Clemence sighs and pats her sister on the back, shaking her head with weary acceptance. Arenvald chortles and sits down cross-legged. He shoots Aureia a grin, raising his mug to her as he takes a swig of ale.

“I do hope you have established the rules for this bout before we begin,” Thancred calls, smirking quietly as he watches Coultenet pace back and forth on the grass. “I would hate to be forced to forfeit on account of overstepping some unknown boundary—and, ah, he is not listening.”

Aureia sidles over to him. “I doubt Coultenet will be doing much listening from here on out.”

“Indeed. It seems one too many drinks has brought out a certain side of our friend. I would be concerned about his ability to judge a fair fight.”

“Hm. Perhaps.” She meets his eyes. “Still want to proceed? You don’t have to fight me if you don’t want to, you know. If you’re getting cold feet—”

He splutters, caught off guard. “Aureia, please, I am not getting cold feet. If anything, consider me invigorated by your challenge. You may have been training hard these past few moons, but you are not alone in that. You will find me a different opponent than the last time we sparred.”

“Lady Yugiri’s given you a few words of wisdom, has she?”

“More than a few.”

She arches an eyebrow and curls her hand into a fist, pressing it against her open palm. “I’ll try not to trounce you too badly. Wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself in front of a shinobi.”

“Truly? She’s not here, is she?” He speaks quickly, an eager flush on his face, eyes darting around the area. “I did not see her among the merrymakers. I did not see her among the merrymakers. I thought she was headed to Limsa Lominsa, but perhaps—” He cuts off, noting her grin. Coughing, he looks away and runs a hand through his hair, a sheepish smile on his face. “I misinterpreted your meaning, I see.”

“Yes.”

“Revealed too much, did I?”

“Yes.” She nudges him. “It’s good. I’m glad to see that you are…” A pause. How to phrase it without making it sound like something it is not? He has a deep admiration for their Doman visitor, to be sure, but admiration does not capture the full extent of it. The satisfaction he has found in meeting Yugiri matches her own in finding the Pugilist’s Guild. The kind of fulfillment that only training can give. “I’m glad to see that you are doing well. After…”

She wets her lower lip, hesitant to go further. After the Praetorium. 

“OI! YOU TWO!” Aenor’s drunken voice rings out across the courtyard. “Are we having a fight or not? Don’t tell me we dragged ourselves—hic—all the way out here for nothing!”

Thancred smirks at her. With a flip of his dagger, he takes off for the sparring ring where their captive audience awaits.

After some discussion wherein Arenvald—who rapidly seems to be the only one who still has his head on straight—is quick to put his foot down, the rules of engagement are set. Three bouts. Best two out of three is the winner. No usage of spells beyond their chosen discipline, though she admits with a pang that such a thing is not applicable to her. Their sparring ring is the courtyard and no further; stepping outside for any reason forfeits the match. Though the other typical rules apply, it does not stop Clemence from wringing her hands and muttering under her breath about incidental injuries and how this is a terrible idea and Y’shtola would say so were she here.

The Crystal Tower gleams in the distance high above, setting the horizon alight with its familiar blue glow. Aureia takes her place at the far end of the courtyard, a strange feeling fluttering in her gut. Anticipation. Excitement. Looping her hair back, she twists it into a knot at the base of her neck and ties it tight. Across the way, Thancred perches on the lip of a broken fountain, casual and carefree. His daggers—blunted by Coultenet’s magic so as not to cause harm—are sheathed at his sides.

“For someone so keen to blow off steam, you look unprepared,” she calls.

He lets out a long, dramatic sigh and leans back on his hands, the blueish-gold light of the early evening filtering through his hair. Sometimes she can almost understand how so many women fall for him. Almost. “The ways of a shinobi are mysterious and enigmatic,” he shoots back, throwing one leg over his knee. “I would be careful not to underestimate me.”

“I would not underestimate Yugiri, but you? Not so sure.” Aureia folds her arms and fixes him with an arch look. “You know there’s no shame in withdrawing now if you’re scared.”

Aenor snorts with shrill laughter and slaps a hand over her mouth, leaning her head against Ocher’s shoulder as she stifles her giggles. Clemence sits beside her with her knees folded beneath her, head bowed in defeat. The others are spread around the perimeter of the courtyard, some sitting, some standing, all watching with rapt attention.

“Scared? Ah.” His hand brushes the hilt of his dagger, toying with it, moving as if to be the first to draw—and passes by. Though Hoary and Coultenet have not called the start of the match—and, to be honest, they may have forgotten and never will—in a way they have already begun. It will just be a matter of who strikes first. “What would I have cause to be afraid of?”

She grins and paces from side to side, stretching her arms, loosening her muscles. Though many pugilists arm themselves with knuckles and the like, she has nothing to draw. The simplicity of hand-to-hand comforts her after the series of ever complex black mage staves she used when she first joined the Scions. “Do you want me to hazard a guess?”

“If you like.”

“Before or after I beat you?”

“My dear friend, who said you are going to beat me?”

Aureia grins, bright laughter bubbling out of her. She bounces on the balls of her feet—once, twice, three times—and falls into a defensive stance not unlike Yda’s, following the smooth, well-practiced motions drilled into her by her mentors. There is something about the here and now, being in this company of friends, facing off against him that fills her with joy.

Her gaze flicks upward, catch him from across the ring in his moment of action. He unfurls from the lip of the fountain, his daggers now half-drawn. The smirk on his face is familiar, yet foreign, joy and delight edged with something harsher. Colder. Dangerous. The strangest sense of déjà vu settles over her. Seven hells, has he always been so…?

The memory of ash and embers hits her like a wave. For the briefest of moments, as Thancred passes from light into shadow, it is not her friend whom she sees on the other side. For the briefest of moments, it is the face of her enemy.

A flare of pain scorches her back, seething and roiling as it dances along the scars, searing deep between her shoulder blades—

No.

She slams the door on the memory and it retreats, puffing out of existence just as Thancred barrels into her. With a startled yelp, she veers to the side and raises an arm in a desperate attempt to evade his attack, but she is too slow. She tilts back on her heels, suspended in the air—falling, falling, falling—and then she crashes into the ground with his weight pressed into her.

Whoops and yells fill the courtyard, Aenor’s triumphant cackle loudest of them all.

Thancred flashes her a cocky grin, his demeanour returned to normal. “I suppose that’s one to the rogue,” he says.

Aureia makes a face, restraining the retort on the tip of her tongue. Didn’t realize we had started, she desperately wishes to say even though it is not true. But that would be unsportsmanlike. She was the one who allowed herself to become distracted. She lost the round all on her own merit.

Her gut twists, shame and guilt bubbling up inside her. She surpassed this, didn’t she? Left it behind. Erased it with hard work and determination under Master Hamon’s eye. But something of the terror and dread from that night has lingered within her. Not fear of what he could do not her—nothing, it is Thancred after all, there are no circumstances in which he is right of mind where he would willingly raise a hand against her—but fear of what she might be forced to do to him.

The ghost of that moment of acceptance, that she would have to kill him to stop Lahabrea, continues to haunt her. Thanks to Hydaelyn’s intervention it did not come to pass, but that she brought herself to that point…

It lingers, like a wound that has yet to fully heal. Does he feel it too, she wonders? When he faced her and drew his blades, was there a moment where he saw her as an enemy, striking him down from the sky with a blade of light? But he wouldn’t remember. He wouldn’t recall. It is perhaps by some grace that he has no recollection of the time Lahabrea gripped his mind, the knowledge the Ascian ripped from his memory, the actions he forced him to commit.   

Does he want to know?

Perhaps it’s preferable that he does not. She can suffer the memory of that night for him. Lahabrea does not deserve to have a hold over more than one of them.

“Aur? Are you all right?”

Aureia blinks. Thancred’s face swims above her, the smug cockiness fading away to concern. Judging from their friends’ laughter and the sound of Coultenet declaring him the winner of the round, mere seconds have passed. He hangs above, pinning her to the ground, though his touch is light and his weight has shifted off her.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he presses, his voice a low murmur.

She turns her head and stares through the gap between his arm and the grass. The Scions laugh and jostle each other in good spirits, their silhouettes dark in the courtyard’s shadows. Hoary and Coultenet are already arguing about overlooking the fairness of bare fists against daggers and whether they should start the match over. Aenor has slinked up next to Ocher and thrown an arm around his waist; he seems more interested in his ale than her. Clemence, with her hands still over her mouth, is whispering to Radolf and Arenvald, her eyes alight with excitement. Q’thera is the one figure of calm, perched on a bench with her tail whisking back and forth.

“I’m fine. Lost focus, that’s all. It happens.” She grins and taps him lightly on the arm, hoping he will drop the subject. “You win this one.”

He pauses, his expression darkening. “We do not have to do this,” he says, his voice low. “If you do not want to, that is—”

“Good thing I want to, then.”

“A friendly sparring match is not so friendly when not all parties consent—”

“Thancred, I’m fine. Don’t think for a second I don’t have what it takes to take you on.”

“…truly?”

It’s not doubt in his voice, but relief.

She turns back and smiles up at him. “You caught me in a moment of distraction,” she says archly, nudging him with her foot. “Won’t happen again.”

He grins back. “Are you certain of that, my lady? You may be a formidable warrior, but I have something you lack.”

“Oh, really? What is that?”

A smirk. “Finesse.”

“Oi! Stop breaking the rules!” Aenor’s shout rings out across the courtyard and Aureia turns to find her standing with her arms wrapped around Ocher from behind, her chin pressed against his shoulder. From the way he’s chortling into his ale, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Are you going to flirt or are you gonna fight?”

Aureia pushes Thancred to the side. “Maybe that’s a flirt to you, Aenor,” she says, getting up, “but I have taste, thank you very much.”

He laughs, running a hand through his hair as he rises to his feet. There’s an odd flush on his cheeks, a sheepishness to his bearing that feels uncharacteristic. “Taste enough to continue this sparring match,” he says, ambling across the sparring ring with casual strides. He catches Q’thera’s eye and gives her a jaunty wave. “Unless you wish to bow out now, Aureia, and save yourself the embarrassment of being trounced a second time.”

“There won’t be a second time.” She huffs and shrugs her shoulders, pacing from side to side as she lets the first match pass through her and prepares for the second. Hamon drilled it into her that it didn’t matter how hard your ass hit the ground, once you stood up from a lost match all you can do is look towards the next with a clear head. “I’m winning the next two, you can count on it.”

Clemence giggles, grinning from ear to ear. She finally lowers her hands, nudging Arenvald excitedly with her elbow.

“We shall see.” Thancred folds his arms, settling into a relaxed stance. “Though if you try the same strategy as before you may very well find yourself the loser once more. But I will give you this—you are bold, my lady, to fight a rogue barehanded. Do you wish to fetch a pair of hora or knuckles? I can wait.”

Aureia catches his eye, a smirk on her lips. She can hear Clemence’s whispered oooooo from across the courtyard. “Dozens of matches in the past few moons, and yet you’re the first to make this complaint,” she says.

His hands fall to his sides. They’re circling each other now, testing each other, waiting for the right time to strike. With this second match they will be sparring in earnest. “Is it a complaint or a simple observation?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” She sweeps a loose lock of hair out of her eyes. “I, for one, am content just the way I am. It takes a certain amount of confidence to enter the ring without a weapon, and yet here you are with two.”

Across the way, Aenor shrieks with laughter and claps her hands together. Arenvald chortles and shakes his head—judging from his look, he is far more entertained by this than he would like to let on.

Thancred shrugs, his smile only growing wider. “Fascinating,” he says, still circling her, watching her movements like a hawk. “Is this much heckling usual in the Coliseum, or is this how you spent all your time with Hamon Holyfist? Studying the art of the tongue rather than the one of the fist?”

You just had to phrase it like that, didn’t you? She stops in her tracks and eases into a defensive stance, arm pushed forward, palm out. “It’s about time you find out,” she calls, flexing her fingers. “Or is the fear of me putting you on your ass holding you back?”

He winks. “As you wish.”

A flash of steel, a rush of air, and he is flying across the ring towards her. She grins, ready this time, grateful for his predictability. Wait long enough and he will always be the first to strike. Stealth and reconnaissance may be his area of expertise, but when it comes to a fight he lacks the patience to allow his opponent to make the first move. It surprises her sometimes that daggers are his weapon of choice; there is something about the form that doesn’t quite suit him.

Her though? Black magic has taught her the meaning of patience, moving at the opportune moment and not a second before. Her former discipline has a reputation for being slow and unwieldy, but she has never found it such. Even in the midst of casting, her mind is racing five steps ahead, balancing risk and reward, ready to unleash a flurry of spells. Such calculated risks make her both easy to underestimate and surprisingly unpredictable. Her opponents may think they have figured her out, but they will never truly know what her next move will be.

Aureia closes her eyes, exhales a breath, and steps out of the way.

Thancred hurtles past. He skids to a stop ilms from the boundary and whirls around, surprise in his eyes and a satisfied smirk on his face. “And here I thought we were sparring, Aureia,” he says lightly, flipping a dagger in his hand. “Not dancing.”

“Same thing in our case, isn’t it?” she jests. “You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to prove yourself a decent partner.”

“Is that so? We shall see.”

“So, we shall.”

He strikes. She steps out of the way. He strikes again. She turns, naturally evading with the smallest of movements. No need to overextend herself until she has to. It doesn’t matter if he misses her by a few ilms or a whole fulm, a miss is a miss. And the closer the miss is, the more it will get under his skin.

If the Coliseum—and every Garlean general she has faced in the past year—have taught her anything, it is that aggravated opponents make mistakes. And mistakes are openings.

Laughter bubbles on her lips and she ducks beneath his arm, spinning about him like a gust of wind, light and untouchable. He watches her move, turning to intercept her only to find her just out of reach. He chortles, his expression alight with a good-natured smile, and yet she can sense the annoyance that she will not stay still long enough to fight him. The push-pull between them is exhilarating, but he is growing tired of it when there is nothing but the chase.

Perfect.

She darts backward, sliding effortlessly across the trampled grass, and gives him a little wave. He sighs, exasperated, and skids to a stop. Dropping his stance, he straightens his back and observes her through narrowed eyes, watching her closely as he anticipates her next move. Together they wait, counting the passing seconds, taunting each other with subtle movements as if the other is about to strike.

Aureia pauses, muscles tensed, and forces herself to stay put. One of them is going to break, and whoever does first will forfeit the match.

One.

Two.

Thancred flashes her a grin.

From the gasp in the crowd, it would seem his blow came from nowhere. The point of his dagger glints in the blue crystalline glow, arcing through the air towards her exposed form—

Aureia’s hand shoots out and in one swift movement it is over. She grabs his arm and knocks the weapon from his grip, then twists and kicks his legs out from under him with a wide sweep. He hits the ground with a yelp, eyes wide with shock even as she follows up, standing over him with her hands spread wide. Aenor’s enthusiastic shriek and Arenvald’s triumphant cheer tells her all she needs to know.

Thancred splutters. “Now, look here—”

“Oh, surprised now, are we?” Aureia’s smile grows wider. “You really thought you would win a second time, didn’t you.”

“I thought nothing of the sort!”

“You knocked me on my ass, so I knocked you on yours. Let’s call it even.” She proffers a hand, ruby eyes sparkling. “Third time’s the charm, don’t they say?”

His lips quirk, as if he is teetering between annoyance at losing and pride that she won. Catching her eye, he takes her hand and grips it tight, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

Their friends cheer and yell, Aenor doing her best to catcall both of them as they make their way to opposite ends of the ring. Coultenet sprints into the centre, hat askew and swaying on his feet, and reaffirms the rules of the bout in the same voice he uses on his younglings, only to be escorted off by Hoary. Clemence slides off her seat and settles at the edge of the ring, knees pulled up to her chest and knuckles pressed against her mouth. Arenvald slips around the group, quietly collecting bets, and shoots Aureia a knowing wink.

She winks back and turns to face Thancred one last time.

This time there is no hesitation, no teasing or taunting, no friendly heckling. Aureia drops into an offensive stance and lunges, darting clear across the arena. Thancred darts out of the way, swerving behind her with skill and speed. Her ears prick up, catching the soft sound of his daggers sliding from their sheathes. She spins about, hair pulling loose from its knot, and her forearm collides with his to block his blow.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Arenvald stand, his gaze passing from her to Thancred and back again. Though this match may be in the spirit of fun and games, a hush has overtaken their onlookers. Even Aenor has fallen silent, trading her cheers for an open mouth and hanging off Ocher with rapt attention. Coultenet and Hoary have ceased whatever argument they’ve gotten into now, and Radolf has put down his drink. Clemence flinches and buries her head in her hands, peering cautiously through the gap in her fingers.

One.

Two. 

Her heart pounds in her chest, each beat counting the passing seconds. Breath hums in her lungs, cool evening air swirls around her, and here, beneath the brilliant purple and blue sky of a peaceful Mor Dhona evening, she feels good. Whole.

And so is he.

Aureia locks eyes with him, staring through the gap between their arms, and throws him back with a sharp push. Thancred laughs with delight and backpedals across the ring, the trampled grass churned to mud beneath his feet, and drops into a crouch. Hazel eyes flick up, hazel eyes flick down—searching for any weak points, anything that will give away her next move. She tricked him in their second bout by holding off; she will not be able to do so again.

So she moves before he can guess where she is going.

She lunges, arm drawn back, her leg sweeping in a fine arc, but this time he is ready for her. He dodges and ducks beneath her blow, cackling with laughter as she collides with him at full force. He bends, using her weight against him, and sends her rolling over his back. She lands on the ground hard and pushes herself up, diving out of the way even as he turns to strike.

He misses her by a hair.

She can’t stop her laughter now. She grins, momentum coursing through her like lightning aether from a thunder spell. They are unstoppable forces, her and him. Twisting, turning, perfectly matched, blow for blow and hit for hit. The fight is their dance, the beat of their feet against the ground their music, moving as one. It does not matter who the victor is, they have achieved something here tonight.

Healing. Harmony. A journey well taken.

Thancred reels back with a grunt, hair falling across his forehead, face flushed from exertion. He’s breathing heavily now, just as she is. Now matter how much either of them press, neither can quite overcome the other. Aureia pauses, brows drawn together in confusion as he draws his hands together. He arches an eyebrow and shoots her a smirks, his hands blurring as if forming a ninja’s mudra, and then he vanishes.

Oh, for the love of—  

“Thancred!” she shouts even as Aenor and Arenvald howl with laughter. “You’re a rotten cheater, you know that right?”

He says nothing, of course—that would give away his position—and yet she swears she can hear him chuckling in her ear.

She rounds on Coultenet, only to find him shrugging and spreading his hands—of course this little invisibility act doesn’t break the rules—and takes off, pacing around the ring. Moving, moving, always moving. To stop now would give him even more of an advantage. Still, even as she prowls the sparring ring, ears pricked and breath light, she is certain there is a way to find him. There must be something that will give him away. Some sound, some sense… If only she could understand how rogues manipulate their aether to blend into their surroundings…

Aether. Bright and strong and pulsing with life. As unique as a fingerprint. It is difficult to discern the aether of one individual from another until you know them well, but Thancred is possibly the person she knows best after herself. She would recognize him anywhere in a heartbeat.

Even when hidden.

There is no need to turn. She reaches for that brilliant, familiar pulse, locking onto with all her strength of will. She sucks in a breath and slips away on the current, pulling herself towards it at a blinding speed, and—

Thancred grunts and hits the ground. She lands on top of him, one knee pressed into the grass, and pins him down. A triumphant gleam shines in her eyes and she leans over him, dark hair spilling across her shoulders.

“Got you,” she says.

He gazes up at her and his expression softens. “I see you found it,” he murmurs. “Perhaps this was the solution all along.”

She frowns. Found it? Found what?

Aenor whoops and claps her hands together, and the courtyard bursts into sound and activity. Their friends gather round, jostling and cheering and arguing. Aureia flushes, red with embarrassment and joy as she helps Thancred up for the second time that evening. As the others flock around him and decimate him for losing, Arenvald catches her eye and offers a silent wave in congratulations.

But it is not congratulations she wants. Something happened in that last moment of their match, something Thancred understands that she is clearly missing. Nudging Radolf out of the way, she slips between the Boulder brothers to take him to the side. Q’thera leans against him with an arm wrapped around him, brushing hair from his forehead and murmuring something too soft to make out in his ear.

She kisses him.

Aureia draws to a halt, a pang twisting in her stomach. Something she can’t quite put her finger on. Strange.   

“Good fight,” Arenvald says, sauntering over to her. “Just so you know, I was betting on you from the beginning. Radolf changed bets halfway through. Didn’t think you could do it, and then he got worried.”

She glances up at him, and the pang eases. “I suppose I can forgive him,” she replies, strolling with him towards the courtyard’s exit. Now that the match is over, their little group is breaking apart and moving out. “I like being the underdog.”

“Ah. So, that’s how you won all those matches in the Coliseum. Or was it that subtle use of black magic thrown in for good measure? Don’t worry.” He leans in close. “I won’t tell Coultenet.”

“I wasn’t using black magic. You know I can no longer cast spells, it’s not exactly a secret—”

Arenvald cocks his head. “Are you sure? I could have sworn you… ah, never mind.” He laughs wistfully. “Useless thought. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“No, I…”

Aureia pauses. Glancing over her shoulder, she catches sight of Thancred, his arm around Q’thera’s shoulders, their heads bowed together. They trail behind the others, exchanging soft words and sweet nothings. Arenvald is right—she did use a touch of black magic in the final match. In a moment of desperation, she sought out the aether of a comrade and teleported herself to him.

It was instinctual, which means…

A flicker of hope rises in her chest.

Turning around, she loops her arm through Arenvald’s and pulls him down the road. “Come on,” she says lightly, head held high. For the first time in months a weight has disappeared off her shoulders. “Let’s head back before we give Minfilia and F’lhaminn cause for worry.”

[violetlypurple]

Hrothgal Glam Review

Let me preface that I wanted muscle cat mommies more than anything. My hype levels were unreal and my fantasia quick. They are Shape and love and I want to kiss their faces. But, after living the dream for a while, I have to go over my nitpicks and concerns with them. Image-heavy opinion vomit incoming.

I love pretty much everything about hrothgals in motion. All the animations are great, the emotes are fantastic, the idles are an outstanding mix of "sassy runway model" and "on a smoke break after changing your oil for you".

They look fantastic. When the glam works out.

The problems come in sleeves, and the way both their arms and anything attached to them apparently scale. They're huge. Disproportionately so. Yes, they have big arms and wide shoulders, but the sleeves are out of proportion and look, well, silly. They are shapeless and inflated by compare. In many cases it is most helpful to compare with roegadyn, given that they are bigger than hrothgals and closer in musculature.

Armour with shoulderpads especially. World of Warcraft wants their pauldrons back.

Some items are just plain broken.

The arms present a problem generally, and seem to not have been rigged properly for extended ranged of motion, sadly showcased with the /stretch emote.

Now, I'm aware that this kind of folding is just kinda what you get when a model is deformed past its limits, but I feel those limits should have been accounted for more carefully, given that these problems are not present (or are less prevalent) on other models.

My verdict is... that its not great. When it works it works, but its hard to live in as a glamour enthusiast. Hats and hair were expected shortcomings... but. The hair situation is even more dire than viera were at launch, and the hat situation vexes me. Square is fine with stuffing much longer miqo'te ears under hats, which largely stopped having ear accommodations back in Stormblood, but no such care for hrothgar? I refuse to believe a slightly different head shape presents that much of a challenge.

I am disappointed and concerned that these issues will not be fixed, or will take years to be. I have heard third hand that hrothgals were crated using the male elezen model instead of a new one, and if that is true then it shows the effort given to hrothgals was always and likely will continue to be low. I may be making glams and taking screenshots for years to come when/if fixes are made, but I'm also doing that in the now, where many of my fav glams are now clown suits and lalafell smuggling apparatus. In the end, I'm not sure I can stick with their flaws.

I know a couple people will come in here to tell me mods will fix this. Begone! I have no time for you.

[selnyam]

refuse — for the single-word drive!

I was already working on a story in my head, so I used this to put it down and also made some poses to go with it. SPOILERS FOR DAWNTRAIL takes place after the MSQ

 A light evening rain was falling upon Tuliyollal.  It was a pleasant evening, the city going about it’s day to day.  Many were still reeling from the attacks, but the city had been defended thanks to the Dawnservants, so citizens were returning to life as usual.   One of the heroes who had helped the Vow of Resolve was sitting in her room at the For’ard Cabins.  The Viera woman had changed into some comfortable clothes, her armour and axe set aside until needed again.  A simple draped top and a pair of shorts, Flidais Oakclamber sat on the patio watching the rain.

Her mind was a whirl of emotions and thoughts.   This trip had started simple enough, be bodyguard to her adopted children the Leveilleur twins, and her best friend Krile.  Also to be advice and backup to the Third Promise Wuk Lamat on her Rite of Succession.  She’d almost refused the offer, not wanting to get involved in a foreign lands politics.  Some convincing from her wife and her wife’s boyfriend G’raha had changed her mind.  When else would she get this opportunity?  She wouldn’t be taking the lead, simply following and defending if needed.  One boat ride later and here she was.  The Rite of Succession had gone well, surprisingly.  For the most part Wuk Lamat, or Lamaty’i as she’d asked to be called, had done the work.  The Viera Warrior just nodding and helping when needed, only a few times needing to bring her axe and combat skills to bear.  In return she’d gotten to spend time with the twins and Krile.  Time they’d not had together in this relaxed way ever!   Then the rite was over and things changed. Another Shard had been fused to the Source, bringing with it an invading army led by Lamaty’i’s brother.  They’d traveled to that lightning scarred land and that’s where things took a downturn.  Flidais was honestly grateful Lamaty’i was still calling the shots.  She wouldn’t have been as open and accepting, giving in to the darker parts of herself and storming the King, Hells save whoever got in her way.  Now that was all over and the threat stopped.  Duty and need were done, and she was left alone with her thoughts.   Which is why she was watching the rain and fighting back tears. A soft knock at the door, and the familiar voice of Wuk Lamat called from the other side. “Flidais?  Are you in here?”  the Veira’s long floppy ears detected the sound of nervous shuffling outside then a second knock Came “I am coming in to check, Nobody has seen you in a day and we are worried.”  The door creaked open and Flidais turned her head, forcing a smile.  Wuk Lamat, the Vow of Resolve stepped into the room.  Instead of her usual clothing, she was wearing an orange floral patterned button up shirt and a coeurl patterned tanga around her waist.  Flidais blinked a few times, and waved her hand at the attire with a curious expression.  Lamaty’i looked down and smiled nervously

“This? Oh, Alisaie got them for me.  Said they would look good and that you would approve.”  She rubbed at the back of her head, long tail swishing anxiously.  Flidais chuckled and raised her hands to sign. [She was right.  You look good.]  the Viera’s smile slowly faded as she turned to look back out the storm as faint thunder rumbled.  Lamaty’i moved closer to the couch where Flidais was sitting.  “Are you alright?  Nobody has seen you and we are all worried.  Alphinaud and Shtola said I should give you space, but… I…”  She trailed off and looked out at the rain, then back to the door.  “I can go if you need space.”  She turned to leave but Flidais reached up and caught her arm.  The Viera slowly shook her head, then gently tugged her hand until the Hrothgar sat next to her.  The pink haired woman held her hand for a moment longer, collecting herself.  It was reminiscent of a dirigible flight they had taken during the Rite.  Carefully and slowly Flidais let go, raising her hands to start to sign.  She went slowly, as Lamaty’i was still learning how the mute warrior communicated, and it was hard to express the turmoil of thoughts in her mind. [I have told I lost my memories?]  She started, thinking of the boat ride here from Sharlyan and getting to know each other.  Talking about some of her past adventures. Her wife Metrina, Krile, and the twins helping teach Wuk Lamat basic finger spelling, many notebooks being filled when writing to speak was easier.  Lamaty’i nodded, gaze focused on the Viera’s scarred and calloused hands.  She continued [I lost them years ago.  Never returned.  Taking memories…]  She hesitated and her hands shook.  

Lamaty’i reached behind them to a nearby desk, where a notebook and pen sat.  She handed it to Flidais, a soft expression on her face.  Flidais signed her thanks, her hands shaking too much to fingers spell accurately.  Slowly she wrote onto the paper, with her friend waiting patiently.  “It horrified and terrified me.  To be so accepting of having memories removed.  Especially those of loved ones!”  she took a deep breath then wrote some more “that wasn’t the hardest part though.  I feel awful for this, but I could scarcely watch you all.  Seeing you with Namikaa, Krile getting to meet her parents, Cahcuia.”  a few tears fell on to the paper, and Lamaty’i placed her hand on the Viera’s shoulder.  “There is no family for me.  I’ll never meet my parents, never learn who they were. And K'shai, Ysayle... I'll never get to say…”  she started crying, unable to continue writing.  The Vow of Resolve gently took the notebook and read it.  Then she reached over, arms wrapping around Flidais in a tight hug.  As the rain splattered and fell on to the deck nearby the two women simply held each other.  Flidais cried and cried, shoulders shaking as she vented her fears, frustration, and loss. After what felt like long moments the Viera took a deep breath and pulled back, wiping at her eyes.  Wuk Lamat softly smiled and spoke.

“Thank you for sharing with me.  I wish we had known in the moment, we could have supported you then.  It would not have taken away from our moments.  You are very important to us! We… I love you.”  The lionesses' ears dropped a little, and she shyly looked away. “I mean that you know.  Not just as family.  Over our time together I developed feelings for you.  It is why I asked you to stay.”  She suddenly waved her arms, trying to play it off.  Flidais wiped a tear away, looking to the woman in front of her as she stammered and continued. “I know you can’t stay, that you have other partners.  I  don’t want to get in the way of that or.. or… “  her words were cut off as Flidais hugged her again, squeezing her in her muscular warrior’s arms.  Then to the Dawnservants surprise, The Warrior of Light kissed her.  A soft lingering kiss, which Lamaty’i returned once her surprise wore off.  Flidais pulled back, her hands moving forward to sign [Please.  I can’t promise anything. Please.  I can’t sleep alone tonight.  Stay?]  Gently Lamaty’i pressed her forehead to the Viera’s, smiling from ear to ear. “How can I refuse?”

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #21 - Shade

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #21 - Shade

Briar breathed out slowly, leaning his head back against the trunk of a tree. He looked up, watching the play of sunlight and leaves in the wind. Lifting his hand, he studied the movements of light and shadow on his freckled skin with a small smile. A splash in the nearby stream caught his attention and the half-Elezen turned his head.

Stripped the waist, a white-haired Viera stood in the water, hands gripping a fishing spear. Covva tilted his head, long silky ears twitching as pale hair swayed around his features. He was quite intent on whatever he was watching, enough that Briar jumped slightly at the sudden thrust of the spear. The Viera gave a pleased 'ha!' as he lifted it, a wiggling salmon caught on the sharp gig.

"Dinner!" Covva said with pride, tossing the fish onto the grass he moved toward Briar. "Come on. If you want to learn to fish like this, you must practice." He offered the half-Elezen a hand.

Briar hesitated a moment, giving Covva his hand and giving a huff as he was pulled to his feet with ease. The Viera was several ilms taller than him and solid with muscle. He wasn't rough, but Briar winced a little as the movement caused a quick, sharp pain through his side. When Covva looked concerned, Briar shook his head and patted his arm a moment in reassurance.

Lifting the edge of his thin linen shirt, Briar studied the wound on his side. Made a few months before by Zenos, it was healing but not fully mended yet. The Garlean prince had struck out to knock his bow out of his hands and the injury seemed barely an afterthought to Zenos. The razor-sharp katana had drawn a deep cut just under Briar's arm at a slight angle so it went over the side of his chest and flank, over his hip and ending just before his left thigh. It was only because he'd been trying to get out of the way and worn armour he hadn't been killed.

Looking at it reminded Briar of the scars on his throat and he rubbed those absently as well. He sighed, a faint rasp to it from those injuries as well. Since that day in Rhalgr's Reach, he hadn't truly managed to speak. He could force a word out here or there, but it was an uncomfortable, frustrating process. It was easier simply not to. Nevertheless, the loss was a heavy one and for a moment, Briar felt a knot of helpless anger in his chest.

He was startled out of it when Covva touched his hand. The Viera gave him a sympathetic smile. "Come on. The fish won't wait," he said softly, nodding toward the stream.

Briar took a deep breath and breathed it out, nodding. Focusing on that feeling wouldn't help him. At least not at the moment. So he picked up his spear and waded into the water with Covva.

"All right, it's easier to hunt in the shade," the Viera explained, nudging Briar into place. "And remember, you need to aim a little ahead of what you see. The water distorts where they are a bit. So aim for where they are going, not where you think they are."

Briar nodded, focusing on stepping as smoothly as possible to avoid spooking the fish. It took a handful of misses, but eventually, Briar was able to lift his own catch to join Covva's on the grass, smiling.

"Good job," Covva laughed. "Now catch a few more."

Briar huffed a soft sound that was meant to be a chuckle and nodded. The Viera was right. Dinner wasn't going to catch itself.

Covva belongs to @avashnea

[avirael]

FFxivWrite 2024

Day 18 - Hackneyed

With a curious expression A’viloh looked up to the giant statue of some saint in the middle of the plaza. It was beautifully crafted from a block of white stone and depitected a knight wearing cloak and armour. His face was hidden by a helmet.

“Don’t you think they all look the same somehow?”

“A bit. I assume this whole heroically fighting against the dragons story can get a little overused and repetitive in 1000 years…”, Rael offered and turned their attention to the statue in front of them too.

The Miqo’te furrowed his brows.

“But don’t you think each of them must have been a lot more individual than that with their own dreams and hopes? It doesn’t seem fair that they all look the same, their faces hidden by a mask…”

Somehow the idea of having all their stories reduced to almost identical, grey, expressionless faces of stone was a sad one. But Rael assumed that this was what time did to memories sometimes, once no one was left to remember their faces or how things had actuall happened.

“Maybe if our plan works, they one day built one of these for you or me too. The ears should be recognisable at least…”, Rael joked in an attempt to brighten the mood. “Saint A’viloh - he bravely fought against the dragon brood on the Steps of Faith and brought peace to Ishgard…”

But imagining that seemed to make A’viloh even more thoughtful. “I’m not sure I want to fight against the dragons. Vishap was already terrifying, can you imagine how horrible the great wyrms must be? Besides, don’t all saints die some horrible and painful death?”

“True…”, Rael mused. “But even though Iceheart may have a point, I don’t think this conflict can just be ended as easily as everybody seems to hope right now…”

“But aren’t they all tired of fighting by now? Isn’t all this talk of holy wars and heresy getting old?”, A’viloh asked and looked distressed, like he himself was already tired of it.

The Viera sighed and remembered their kins hatred for the Garleans. The conflict for Golmore was by far not that old yet as this war but had already produced so much bloodshed too.

“It’s not that easy, A’vi. A thousand years are a long time. One cruelty avenged by another and another and another. The Ishgardians? They were born and raised in this war, it’s everything they know. And the dragons? You heard Midgardsormr. They live long enough to remember all of this bloody war… It doesn’t matter anymore who was right in the first place. Neither of them are just going to give up and admit they were wrong. Both sides feel justified in their hate and this will make it difficult to find a peaceful solution…”

For a moment A’viloh was quiet, silently contemplating what Rael had said.

“But what can we do about this at all?”

“I don’t know. But you heard what Thordan said. And if the Ascians are involved behind the scenes, we can’t just ignore this. I have no perfect answer for solving this conflict but neither does Iceheart or Aymeric or anybody else… But we have to try anyway. Maybe together we can find a solution…”

[ladyinthebluebox]

12, 22, 28 and 30 for the veilguard ask? c:

ayo, thank you for the ask! [question list] answers under the cut 'cause. long post...

12. most/least favourite side quest?

least favourite? easy. The Warden Vault. that fucking puzzle got me embarassing amount of time to solve only 'cause i kept missing one hidden folded ladder...

most favourite. hmmm. i think i'd have to vote Emmrich's whole questline 'cause i found it really entertaining (especially with Taash as +1) and because it can possibly end with one of the most wholesome sequences in the whole game imo.

also it opens with this scene which just. to me is the best frame in history:

the HAND OF GLORY am i right? XD

22. would your Rook be part of the book club?

probably not. Viera is not really the kind of person who does much recreational reading in her spare time. if anything, she would be more partial to reading those newspaper serials with Bellara ^^

28. can your Rook actually swim or??

Treviso might be 50% canals and water but... no. Viera doesn't swim. she can keep herself afloat with magic if the need for it arises, tho.

30. fave/funniest/most cursed screenshot?

well in all fairness i didn't experience many cursed situations with this game. it was & is so well bahaved for me. no notes. my fave screencap is this one of Taash (surprise surprise) i took... i think it's the best shot i've taken in any game ever... funniest? lets do two:

i found it extremely funny that Bellara was standing in the background of a very crucial dragon-related conversation just. surrounded by glowing butterflies. as she should be at all times, i think... just look at her.

Viera looking like the most pathetic creature while wearing qunari armour set in that one scene. my girl was definitely not made for this crap... but what one won't do for a bunch of cute griffon babies, am i right?

[the-littlest-kojin]

A Poll

So, I have a problem. I make too many characters. I currently have too many to want to announce them all at once in a block, so for the sake of my weird brain, I'm going to make a poll to dictate what order I officially announce them in.

[storms-path]

FFXIV Write 2024: Day 19 - Taken

Garlemald was cold. But Garlemald was always cold, and Fareena had faced worse winters in Bozja. Garlemald was hostile. But Garlemald had been hostile since its inception, chased into the frozen wastes for their perceived lack and turning it into a still-burning grudge. Garlemald was oppressive. But Garlemald could not help but oppress. Its leader had made it so in his mad quest to stamp out all other nations.

No, Garlemald irked Fareena because it was so decidedly dull. Grey roads, grey buildings, grey clothes. As if the sight of any colour that wasn’t some shade of grey, white or red would kill the already frail emperor. Still, it meant that Fareena could slip in relatively unnoticed, wearing the “borrowed” uniform of a soldier who had ventured away from his unit. By the time they found his body in the snow, she’d be long gone. With a little luck, anyway.

The VIIth legion had made a pit-stop in Garlemald after turning Bozja into a smoking wasteland. Fareena intended to find out why. Even if it meant jamming her ears into the stuffiest helmet known to viera-kind and learning the Garleans’ damned salutes. Luckily the Garelans’ relatively large size disparity leant itself well to her larger-than-most stature. So long as she didn’t speak, none would suspect her. And it was easy enough to act busy with a rusty gunblade as the soldiers gossiped around her. Darnus’s success at Bozja was the talk of the town, it seemed.

Fareena bit down the urge to burn the entire barracks to cinders as the brutes called her people “savages”. She needed to make a clean getaway, unfortunately. Even if the thought of slipping into the palace and hurrying along old Solus to his well-earned grave was an all-too-tempting thought.

“Sounds like Solus is ready to finally bring Eorzea to heel,” declared a soldier who really should have learned to keep his voice down. Stifled though they were by the helmet, Fareena’s ears twitched in his direction. “Still, sending Legatuses van Darnus AND van Baelsar? He must be desperate to claim them.”

The Black Wolf and the White Raven? Fareena’s stomach churned as an awful certainty rose within her. They’re going to leave nothing but ashes if the Raven is involved.

“Desperate? No, he just knows Baelsar will keep that madman on a tight leash.” It seemed one of the other soldiers agreed with her. “Did you hear what really happened in Bozja? Half a legion, dead! All because of that secret project Midas nan Garlond’s been playing around with!” Fareena fought the urge to twist around in her seat. Garlond? Where had she heard that name before? She cursed her inattentiveness when the Resistance briefings had been circulated. Too busy out in the snow, murdering Garleans. Clashing with legatuses. Licking her wounds.

“Careful, boy.” The original soldier’s voice was lower now. Much more cautious than before. “That kind of talk carries a lot of weight, especially with the Raven’s star on the rise.” Smart, for an imperial. Perhaps in another life he could have been a good man. But he’d bathed in the blood of empire just as all the rest. And you’ll burn with it when I tear it all down around you. Fareena’s hands clenched instinctively around the handle of her borrowed gunblade. It would be so easy to carve a path of destruction through this place. Through these people. They’d deserve it, too. For what they did to Bozja. For what they did to me.

A sudden muffled boom sounded, followed by a series of tremors and smaller booms. A moment later alarms began to sound. Apparently someone else had infiltrated the city, and with a great deal less subtlety than Fareena. The soldiers were in disarray, all hurrying around to obtain discarded armour and weapons, or to find the rest of their unit and investigate. Fareena knew an opportunity to slip away when she had it waved in front of her nose so flagrantly. Nobody noticed a single soldier in the crush, just as nobody noticed that soldier break away and into the city proper.

Garlond. She was certain she’d heard it before. Something about a Garlond ferried out of Bozja before the city had fallen. A possible lead. If only she had any idea where to find it. She could follow the sound of explosions to its source, but something about them felt… off, somehow. Out in the night air, she could see the smoke plumes rising from the eastern quarter of the city. But from what she had been able to tell, it was just storage sheds out that way. A poor place to target for someone looking to do real damage. So…

Without really thinking about it, Fareena headed south instead. She kept to the shadows, dark armour blending in perfectly as all eyes turned towards the growing blaze. Screams were starting to rise now, more fear than pain. The citizens suddenly realising they weren’t as safe as they thought. That Garlemald wasn’t invincible after all. There would be repercussions for this, but for now the city was too stunned to lash out. As Fareena slipped into the residential quarter, she felt no sympathy at all for it.

The lights were mostly out this late at night, bar a few of the more alert sleepers suddenly waking to chaos and flame. But the fires would never reach this part of the city, and most knew it. The wealthiest of Garlemald’s people suffered the least for its sins. So it was the world over. Bozja, for all its shining beauty, had been no different. Still, Fareena had no time to philosophise. Her eyes were drawn to one house in particular. Its lights were off, but the same could not be said for the large extension attached to it. She could faintly hear the sound of machinery. Either someone hadn’t heard the explosions… or they were already prepared for them.

Fareena crept towards the building, silent as a ghost. Her heart was racing now. Did Garlemald have a traitor right in its heart? Would she find someone willing to tear down the vile empire from within? Or was this simply a madman with an axe to grind, sowing devastation and fear simply because it suited them? She knew not, but she intended to find out.

The ring of metal grinding against metal was clear now, even through her helmet. It was tempting to tear it off entirely, but a viera in Garlemald was unheard of, and enough soldiers were familiar with her reign of terror in Bozja that she didn’t want to risk it. Better to keep her anonymity. She crept towards the door, noting this close that it was slightly ajar. That explained the light spilling out into the street. She could see a figure hunched over a slab of metal, back turned to the door and clearly occupied. Perfect.

Fareena nudged the door open, just wide enough to slip inside and-

A length of very sharp steel was thrust towards her neck. Fareena lurched back on instinct, only to tumble over a length of cable. The hulking man wielding the steel lunged forward, only to tumble forward himself. Fareena scrambled out of the way as he crashed to the floor with a thud, reaching for her gunblade… which had been knocked loose by her fall, and now lay at the feet of… a lalafell? Who, with shaking hands, wielded a pistol of Garlean make.

“S-stay where you are!” he shouted through trembling hands and voice. His goggles obscured his eyes, but Fareena could guess at what lay under them. “Don’t move!”

The first man had stopped his work, turning to face them. He froze when he saw the armour-clad Fareena. “You got a good aim on her, Wedge?” The lalafell nodded. He did not, and Fareena knew it, but he didn’t need it when she was this close. “Good,” said the man. His white hair matched the steel in his gaze, but he looked young. Barely in his late 20s, if Fareena had to guess. “Pull the trigger, and make it quick. We’re almost ready.”

“Chief!” cried Wedge as Fareena at the same time cried, “Wait!” The larger man had gotten to his feet now, still clutching what Fareena could now see was a sharpened length of pipe. His grip was steadier than his companion’s, Fareena noted. More sure of himself, or simply more used to violence. Either way, dangerous.

The man, apparently named Chief, paused. “That voice,” he muttered in what he clearly hoped was quiet enough for Fareena not to hear.

“Let me take off my helmet,” Fareena continued, heart pounding like an overexcited spriggan. She desperately hoped they wouldn’t be her final words. A long moment of silence stretched on before Chief finally nodded. Wedge’s aim wavered slightly. The larger man’s did not. Slowly, very slowly, Fareena tugged free her helmet. A rush of cold ear and relief flooded her massive ears as they sprang free, along with her tumble of fern-green hair.

“Well, I’ll be…” Chief stepped forward, offering Fareena a hand. The other two men tensed, but were waved off with Chief’s spare hand. “Mistress Hagen, right?” Now it was Fareena’s turn to tense. She still took the offered arm, letting herself be lifted to her feet. “Cid Garlond. Pleasure to finally meet the man my father cursed so. Only wish the circumstances of our union were better.”

Garlond. The pieces clicked into place. The scientist’s son, rushed out of Bozja with a major gunshot wound. His father, Midas nan Garlond, who had detonated the prototype weapon to finally end the Bozjan Resistance, at the cost of his life. Apparently the boy had survived, and was now… what? Tinkering with machines in his father’s garage? Fareena let herself look around for the first time. Machinery littered the walls, the floor, every inch of the surprisingly large space. But taking centre-stage was an airship. A rather small one, but large enough for…

Ah. Of course. This is their escape vehicle.

Cid smiled as Fareena put two and two together. “Afraid you walked in on our little getaway, so we can’t stay and chat. But someone has to put a stop to my father’s mad plans.” He didn’t know. News had not yet reached him of Midas nan Garlond’s death. Fareena opened her mouth to tell him, then thought better of it. Instead, another thought sprang to mind.

“The bombs were your doing, I take it?” Fareena noted Cid wince immediately as the words left her mouth. Not a man used to violence, apparently.

“Aye, that was me. Needed to keep the city’s eyes off us. Won’t get another chance like this for a long time.” Cid turned to his accomplices. “Biggs, Wedge, get us ready for takeoff. Time’s wasting.” Wedge nodded immediately, trotting off to perform his final checks. Wedge was less convinced.

“Are you sure about this, Chief? I know you’ve heard of her and all, but who’s to say she didn’t come here on Darnus’s orders?”

Fareena’s eyes flashed dangerously as she whirled to face the roegadyn. “I would sooner die. That man took everything from me. I will do the same to him.”

Her voices echoed into silence. Then, abruptly, Cid laughed. He barked his amusement into the garage, but his laughter swiftly descended into coughing and groaning. He clutched his side, waving off the large man’s clear panic. “I’ll be fine, Biggs. Just need to watch my wound, that’s all.” Cid straightened with obvious pain. “Whatever your business in the city is, best be on your way. You have a way out in mind?”

Fareena shook her head. She’d had a plan, but that had gone up in smoke the moment the explosions had erupted into life. Cid grimaced, then limped over to a lump of… something, hidden under a large curtain. With a grunt he tugged the curtain away, revealing the ugliest bike Fareena had ever seen.

It was love at first sight.

“This here’s the Fenrir,” Cid declared, patting the brutal motorcycle on its headlight. “All terrain monstrosity. This’ll get you where you need to go. Just promise you’ll look after it.”

Fareena stepped slowly forward, eyes glittering, nose twitching, ears aflutter. “This will get me through the snow?” she whispered reverently.

Cid laughed again, against his better judgement. “Don’t you know what all terrain means, girl? This’ll get you anywhere you need!” Cid gave her a warm smile. If you follow the road due south, you’ll get to a practically deserted checkpoint. Anyone stops you, tell them Midas’s boy has urgent news for the VIIth that can’t be delayed.” With Biggs’s assistance, Cid made his way to the ship. As if on cue, the roof of the garage split open with a groan. The night air flooded the garage in an instant. “Take care of yourself, Hagen!” Cid cried as the airship’s engine roared into life. “May we meet again, if fate allows it!” Then he was gone, along with his companions, into the night. Just a dark blot against a starless sky.

Fareena smiled as she hooked her legs around the engine of the great beast. “I’ll make my own fate, thank you very much.” The engine roared into life as the key turned. Oh, you and I are going to get along just fine.

Amidst fire and smoke, Fareena vanished into the night.

[umbralsound-xiv]

Don't Shoot The Messenger.

Saran sighed to herself, fingers placed against her temples as she rubbed at it while processing the heap of information Cahvi'ra had opted to unload upon her. With Z'quohn busy, and the unwillingness to report directly to Grym, the Keeper had decided that the Left hand was to be graced with the information; and that Saran were to be the messenger that she never signed up to be. She cast a final glance of irritation the Keeper's way as her steps led her towards Vairg's room, halting just before it to let her knuckles meet the door's surface rather than simply barging in.

Vairg's room wasn't silent; perhaps this was what had deterred others from entering, save for the presence of the man within. A slow, uncomfortable sound of stone on metal, grinding in gritty, nail-biting swathes. And at the knock it stops. No response; not right away, and no footsteps to follow. It's an almost uncomfortable amount of quiet that passes before the distinctive tone of the Viera calls out from within. "Come in, girl."

She waited, as long as it took for Vairg's voice to emit. She opened the door an slipped inside, slowly shutting it behind her as her golden gaze sought out the Viera within.

I can already tell this isn't a social call. Something to do with the squabbling i heard outside moments ago? I hope so. I don't sharpen my blade for nothing.

His gaze was already waiting for hers, sat hunched over in his favourite armchair, sword resting sidelong over a metal boot, whetstone in hand. Briefly, he seeks out her hands, and realising she'd not brought food, a brow arches as he regards her. "Yes?"

A faint exhale passes her lips as she begins to step just a little closer, beginning to speak as she does. ".. I will start by saying that I had nothing to do with this, and I am simply the messenger since the one person remaining who did have a part in this.." She halts, and turns herself halfly towards the door as she raises her voice. ".. is too much of a bloody coward to come tell you himself." She definitely intended for whoever she meant to overhear that one particular bit, before she turns back to Vairg.

His mismatched gaze levels with her own, betraying nothing, save for the slow, small curl of his lips to one side in a faint smirk. Another long, quiet pause; he'd glanced to the door as she indicated it, but only for a moment or two. His gaze seems to eat into her, locked to her own; not asking for her to elaborate. Simply, he waits.

I expect that she'll elaborate. She came in here to tell me, and i'm not going to beg for it. I'm above that. She knows better.

"Apparently.. Cahvi'ra, Maren, Myrun and Aermuwil found the Miqo'te, X'llaya, alongside a Viera out in the Shroud, and made an attempt to capture her.. Which they failed, quite miserably. Cahvi'ra is the only one who made it back, the others are dead." She shifted the weight from one leg to the other, arms folding before her chest as she continues. "He reported that while X'llaya killed Maren and Myrun, the Viera was the one who laid waste to Aermuwil." A brief pause, before she continues. "And apparently, Eanwin's restrictions on X'llaya's aether has been undone, or malfunctioned, she used her ice without struggle."

...Hm. Finally someone bringing something worthy of my time and notice to my attention, though it shouldn't be her doing it. But, that isn't important right now. I'll see to him later. There's a lot to consider. But i can't say i fully believe it all. I don't doubt Eanwin's work for a second, but that isn't to say someone else didn't do something to fix it. As for the Viera... I find his capability to kill an armed and armoured Roegadyn several times his size to be... Laughable, if not unrealistic. He's a coward.

All the while through her speaking, Vairg casually tossed the whetstone up to catch it, idly occupying himself as he quietly processed the information. Over and over… Until he stopped at the mention of a Viera, eyes flicking to her own more intently as the ice was mentioned. Slowly, the stone is set aside on the table, as Vairg leans over even further on the chair. Where one might expect a frown, or at the very least a sour expression… Vairg held a smirk so wide it could have been called a grin were it not so wicked. "I see…" He begins, head tilting ever so slowly to the side. "…As enthralling as the tale is… It would be remiss of me if i didn't check." Another pause, though not as long. "Do you think he is telling the truth?"

Saran kept her gaze upon Vairg, quietly noting the smirk - to which her own head tilts. ".. Hard to say, considering I wasn't here when those two were.. All I've heard about them has been through someone else's account. The Viera killing someone sounds like a stretch after what I heard of him, but.. He is X'llaya's partner, no? People sometimes do things far from their nature for people they love." Her voice trails, a low hum escaping her. "As for X'llaya.. I heard she pressed through the first restriction, perhaps she simply managed to press through the second, too. Eanwin will likely lose her mind at the mere suggestion her work failed, or was undone."

So she thinks the same as me, in ways. Interesting. Though he did kill someone, before. And it isn't unheard of for X'llaya to push through her restraints. Still, i won't waste Grym's time going to it with him before i've confirmed what actually happened.

"So you have been educating yourself." Vairg proclaims, slowly sitting up to recline in the chair, sword perched up against the arm. "Less of a stretch than you might imagine. He killed Athilda during his captivity. I was hoping for some sport back then, but he was… Disappointing. Though killing him-- Almost killing him -- Had some merit. X'llaya broke her boundary, then. I saw what she was capable of, even inhibited…" Fingertips begin to slowly drum on the chair arm. "…I can't begin to imagine what she might be capable of, now."

"I have, I figured I should get somewhat of a picture of them, considering the.. sudden decrease in our numbers following in their wake. Some of the causes of death were certainly… an interesting read." Her head tilts. "Perhaps a second time would prove more fruitful, if he truly did as Cahvi'ra said. And she can't be far if he's put in danger, hm?"

"Plenty of dead. If not for X'llaya within, that… Sister of hers, on the outside. They are just as desperate to keep her as we are to take her." The tapping of his fingertip stops, features slowly shifting into something more thoughtful. "Perhaps. Though i'd best him anyway. Still, amusing until he stops screaming, and then X'llaya will surely run to his side. That is when the real fun will begin. With her aether unbound, and her unbridled rage in my direction. I will deliver her to Grym's feet, broken and weeping." After a moment, Vairg slowly rolls his shoulders. "Though i shouldn't get too carried away with my thoughts. I want proof of what happened, this sun…"

Though i can't deny taking him for myself for whatever might amuse me doesn't sound appealing, if only to make the both of them scream more. Mm. Still, confirmation first.

"Of that, I have no doubt.. But at least some entertainment could be drawn from him before you face X'llaya." Saran's arms unfold, one hand settling on her hip as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other. "I sadly carry no proof of it, Cahvi'ra merely relayed the words to me." Those golden orbs of hers roll in their sockets as she mentions the Keeper once more. "I'd say maybe he has some, but considering he was too much of a coward to tell you directly, he probably fled the scene without any. If there was one."

"Some." Vairg agrees. "He is too weak for anything more than a passing amusement. He doesn't fight back." Mismatched eyes watch Saran's own, as they rolled with her words as she spoke. "I want someone to investigate. No one we can't afford to lose. Someone disposable." The word rolled from his tongue like an insult, though far more matter-of-factly than most. "Send Q'kura."

Cowardly little bastard. I don't trust him an ilm, and with any luck X'llaya and her sister will dispose of him and the rest of the chaff soon enough. I still don't know how he got away. How he survived for so long. He should have died with the rest.

Saran's head tilt's at Vairg's words - likely having assumed she'd be the one who was sent, a brow lofting in slight surprise as Q'kura's name is spoken. "Just Q'kura?" She asks.

"Mm. No." Vairg adds, looking over Saran. His lips flicker into a smirk, but only for a moment, before he glances away to his bed, armour laid out and ready to be worn at a moment's notice. "…Not you. But someone we can trust the word of. Q'kura has been more skittish than most since his… Absence. Send some of the initiates. I don't care who. But i want proof, before i act." The latter words bring his eyes back forth, to settle on Saran once again. "In the meantime… If Cahvi'ra is too much of a coward to seek me out… I will make the effort to find him, instead."

Not her. She's at least useful, and strives to make herself be so in a way that isn't so annoying or sickening. I'll find the Keeper, and get my own answers, if he's too much of a coward to find me himself, and send someone in his stead.

Saran sinks her head into a slow nod at the comment of not sending her, a thing that likely should be taken as a positive thing, knowing that Vairg didn't view her as disposable. She holds her silence in a moment of thought, a low hum escaping her. "I'm not quite up to date with who exactly is disposable, or who exactly is both disposable and trustworthy, but I'm sure I can find out rather swiftly." A brow is lofted at the next sentence, lips tugging into a tiny smirk that she battles to straighten out once more, a small noise of amusement managing to slip out despite her effort to keep quiet.

"Hm." The sound wasn't altogether unpleasant, ending with the small loft of his brow, lips curled into a less wicked smirk, if there could be such a thing from him. Slowly, his head tilts from one side to the other, as though a predator assessing prey, eyes never quite leaving him… Though whatever words he had, he kept to himself.

She's pragmatic. Maybe not quite so meek and flimsy as she appears. She does as she's asked before she's told, rather than wait to be told every little thing through some spineless fear of a misstep. ...Interesting.

Saran shifts her weight from one leg to the other, gaze resting upon Vairg as she waits just a small moment, soon drawing a breath to prepare herself for speaking. "I will figure out who to send with Q'kura and see them on their way, and after that.. I could return with some food, if you'd like?"

The mention of a meal inclines Vairg's head an ilm, a small note of contemplation given at the question. "If i had known your efficiency as a personal assistant, i would have requested you sooner." The fingertips of his good hand drum quietly on the arm of the chair, clearly amused as he watches her.

A small huff of amusement leaves Saran, head dipping into a small nod. "Is there any food in particular you'd like me to bring?"

"Mmm…" The sound he made was reminiscent of a rumbling stomach, though made with his own lips. Despite his earlier words, he moves to rise from the armchair, stretching out to his full, considerable height; reaching for a loose shirt abandoned somewhere on the seldom used bed. "…Surprise me." The words were almost like a challenge, as he inclined his head.

...I'm curious to see what she'll bring. What she thinks my tastes are. It's like a little game.

Saran pauses, gaze slowly following as Vairg stands - only now realising just how significantly taller the Viera was, having usually approached him while he's been sat down. There's a small pause as she simply looks at him for a moment, then sinks her head into a nod once she has processed the full height of the man. ".. Will do."

Pulling the shirt over his head, he stretches out, a low murmur of amusement leaving him. "While you bring dinner, i will be doing a little… Research of my own…" He briefly eyes his sword, considers for a few moments, before those famed metal footsteps make way to the entrance to his room. "…I have no tolerance for cowards. But they are at least good for something…"

"Bullying?" Saran flashes a tiny smirk Vairg's way, as she, too, begins to turn to step towards the door.

"…You learn fast." Vairg compliments, holding the door open for her.

"I do try." She chuckles, slipping out the door with her head sinking into a thankful nod at his gesture.

No other reply is given; at least nothing verbal. A small hum of amusement; be it for her response, or the sudden visit he was about to enact on an unsuspecting Keeper - Either could have been true. Regardless, he allows the door to close behind him, and walks with almost idle purpose along the corridor…

With Vairg's departure, Saran turns on her heels to walk towards the infirmary, holding back the sigh that seeks a desperate release - not intending to let it out at any point while the Viera was still within possible earshot.

[blade-that-weeps]

The eternal struggle of choosing between pretty viera face, or the ability to wear cool helms and indulge my deep love for armour and knights