#white whittret

[nerimaemae]

I have a ferret now. I love him

[gwalafell]

no thoughts, only whittret

[mosthuggableffxiv]

Most Boopable Minion Part 2: Actual Animals

These minions are all entered in the Most Puntable/Huggable minion tournament I will (Eventually) be running here. If you don’t see one you like on this poll and would like to enter them, click here!

[myreia]

— B A S I C S

Name: Aureia Malathar Nicknames: Aur Age: 28 at the start of ARR, 38 in 6.x. Nameday: 30th Sun of the 3rd Umbral Moon Race: half-elezen (wildwood), half-hyur (midlander) Gender: female [she/her] Orientation: biromantic asexual Profession: warrior of light, battlemage-for-hire, former spy/operative

— P H Y S I C A L     A S P E C T S

Hair: black with red streaks Eyes: red Skin: pale Tattoos/scars: arcane brand burned into her back

— F A M I L Y

Parents: Elgara Theorzen (deceased, killed in Bozja), Ariv Theorzen (deceased, killed in Garlemald) Siblings: Kallias Theorzen (twin brother), currently alive Grandparents: deceased, names unknown In-laws and Other: married Thancred post-5.0. (impulsive decision, definitely happened too soon), considers Ryne her daughter, considers Urianger her brother Pets: Filo (chocobo), Nox (carbuncle), Castor (white whittret), Nutkin (nutkin)

— S K I L L S

Abilities: DRK/GNB | WHM/SGE | RPR/DRG | MCH | BLM/RDM Hobbies: botany (she's not good at it), training & learning new combat techniques, hiking, wandering in busy cities and taking it all in, river boating, collecting weapons, collecting earrings & rings, magical research

— T R A I T S

Most Positive Traits: determined, self-assured, inquisitive, compassionate for those forgotten and those left behind, loves fiercely and deeply Most Negative Traits: reckless, impulsive, selfish, abrasive, doesn't trust easily, prone to keeping secrets

— L I K E S

Colours: black, dark red, dark blue, silver Smells: the woods after rainfall, pine, the smokiness of a good campfire, saffron, a hint of citrus, the spice of street food in a busy market Textures: supple leather, polished wood, soft snowfall Drinks: tea, coffee, lemon water, orange juice

— O T H E R    D E T A I L S

Smokes: no Drinks: formerly yes, became an alcoholic in Stormblood, is now in recovery and doesn't drink Drugs: no Mount Issuance: Filo accompanies her almost everywhere; she has an amaro on the First (currently unnamed names are hard); occasionally rides a motorcycle or drives another vehicle; when she wants to show off, she shows up on a firebird Been Arrested: yes (several times) 🙃

Tagged by: @ardberts thank you!!! 🖤✨ Tagging: @birues @ishgard @wind-up-nhaama @roguelioness @tsunael @ahollowgrave

[fishmoochi]

my wol, Minnow!! ft. Noraxia (she’s fine guys! completely alive. completely fine), her white whittret named Ministry (don’t ask), Alphinaud and Haurchefant : ) she’s a whm who puts others first in a way that is horrendously detrimental to herself. she sacrifices way too much in order to keep everyone alive. until, yeah

[midnightmagicks]

Thank you for the tag @avampyone !! <3

Tagging: Anyone who is interested! <3 If you see this, do it :point:

—𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒔

Name: E'mal Khama (Birth name: (that he doesn't know) Kari Brotiðgrein/Brotinngrein Nicknames: One(1) single nickname that only @shadesofblades Baatu is allowed to call him: Mally/Molly Age: 55-60 (Give or take. Being adopted at a young age makes this Difficult) Nameday: 25th Sun of the Sixth Umbral Moon (Starlight baby <3) Race: Rava Viera Gender: Trans male Orientation: Gay gay homosexual gay Profession: Travelling entertainer, dancer, and duelist

—𝒑𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔

Hair: Black. Very shiny and well taken care of. Eyes: Violet colored right eye and a blinded left eye. Skin: A warm tan-ish tone. Tattoos/scars: A tattoo on his forehead that often hides behind his hair. Two scars on either side of his chest (fantasy top surgery babey)

—𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚

Parents: E'dona Khama: Adoptive Mother (Alive) E'wyn Khama: Adoptive Father (Alive) Siege Einar/Vísyr Djt-Rok: Biological Father (Alive! E'mal has no idea though) Sunna Brotiðgrein/Brotinngrein: Biological Mother (Deceased) Siblings: Several. All assumed deceased. Grandparents: Unknown biologically and adoptive. In-laws and Other: Unknown Pets: Wisteria, his darling chocobo and Eclair, his white whittret.

—𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔

Abilities: Always one to give his all to a performance, E'mal has mastered the arts of Dancer and Red Mage in combo. He has learned to weave the magicks together to make shows surely able to capture the attention of passing crowds. But more than just street dancing, he is a capable fighter should he need to protect himself. Just....a little more flamboyantly than most. Hobbies: E'mal enjoys baking! He loves making sweets for his friends. He also enjoys fishing though he would NEVER admit that out loud. Another thing he enjoys is singing. That surprisingly doesn't come up as often as one would think in his performances as those are usually focused on the dancing and magic aspects.

—𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔

Most Positive Trait(s): Adventurous and Social Most Negative Trait(s): Self-neglectful and Emotionally Suppressed

—𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒔

Colors: Red, purple, gold, green Smells: Lavender, sugary-sweet scents, spices (cinnamon, nutmeg, etc etc), leather

Textures: Velvet, Silk, Jewels. Rose Petals, Tree Bark, Fur Drinks: Spiced Teas, Fruity Alcohols, Hot Cocoa

—𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔

Smokes: No. Drinks: Occasionally. Socially. Drugs: No. Mount Issuance: His loyal and excitable adventuring companion, Wisteria. The light purple chocobo with an equally dramatic personality to E'mal. Been Arrested: No, but he almost was his first time in Ishgard lmao. Thanks Ezie for preventing that one.

[agent-yolk-writes]

FFXIVWrite (Day 7) - Morsel

I love my white whittret. He's such a little guy!

“Riida?” “Yes?”

“May I ask why your whittret is in the air?”

Riida, with her beloved pet being held up in one hand, looked over at Grounded Bird like he asked her what color is a ruby carbuncle. 

“He’s in air jail.”

“Okay… why is Noodle in air jail?”

“He was being naughty.” 

That could be a lot of things, knowing Noodle’s owner. The whittret in question, true to his name, was simply limp in her iron hand of justice. Not a single onze of remorse in those empty beady eyes of his. 

“What did he do this time?”

“He tried getting into the chocobo’s feed, which he’s not supposed to be eating. ” She wiggles him for emphasis, the rodent simply swaying along. “Remember the last time you got in there? You tried to get your brother to pick a fight with the other chocobos in the stable so you could get away with a meager piece of lettuce and guess what happened? Your mother had to clean up after you got sick.” She angles her hand so Noodle can look at her directly. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, young man?”

The whittret said nothing. A silent threat that he’ll do it again.

[purple-link]

And now, for no reason, White Whittret!

[pangolinheart]

FFXIVWrite 2023 DAY 17 - THE GLEANER AND THE FROG (EXTRA CREDIT)

Erenville encounters a frog in Labyrinthos that looks suspiciously familiar.

(For today's free day I decided to write the beginning of a totally ludicrous AU where the Warrior of Light gets stuck as a frog for an extended period. This somehow came out of me noting that if one were turned into a frog by Y'shtola, Erenville seems like he would be the most qualified character to help you. He might not know how to fix it, but at least he would recognize that you're not a frog and could possibly tell a trusted adult who could help. Failing that, he's probably not a bad choice of person to care for you for the rest of your froggy days. I may continue to write a few scenes for this little AU with the sorts of mischief Rhiki might get up to as a frog, but we shall see!)

Rating: General Genre: Fluff, nonsense Characters: Erenville, Y'shtola Rhul, Alphinaud Leveilleur, Alisaie Leveilleur. Word Count: 1,583 Content Warnings: None.

There was a series of rustling sounds in the tall grass. Erenville’s ears perked up. Something was running. He tilted his head. Two somethings. Running towards him? He looked up from the requisition form he had been examining, and just as he did a frog exploded from the reeds, propelling itself forward as fast as its legs would carry it. Three seconds later, a whittret came coursing after it, only paces behind. It must have been hungry.

The frog darted past him, but then, oddly, seemed to notice him and pivoted, running back in his direction. Hm? Why did that frog seem… familiar? His suspicion that something was amiss was confirmed when it next did something no true frog would have under such circumstances. With its exceptional leap it launched itself at his leg, connecting with the side of his knee. Its little fingers scrabbled against his pant leg to pull itself further from the whittret’s jaws. The whittret hesitated only a moment before deciding to take its chances. It hunkered back, preparing to lunge and snatch the creature, when Erenville reached down and scooped up the frog with both hands, lifting it far out of the whittret’s reach. The weasel-like beastkin aborted its charge and instead hissed, scampering backwards and then circling, ready to dash forward and snag the frog should Erenville release it, or dive out the way of his hands should he have a mind to try capturing it, as well.

Erenville, looked at the frog in his gentle grasp, then down at the whittret. “I am sorry, my friend. It seems you will have to look elsewhere for your dinner. It is for the best. This is clearly not a very good frog. It would only give you indigestion.”

The whittret, uncomprehending and unheeding, continued to circle, until several sets of much heavier footsteps startled It, and it bolted back into the tall grass.

“Rhiki!” He heard a familiar, if breathless, voice call, and when he turned his head he was not surprised to see one of the white-haired twins who had been accompanying his new “friend” earlier sprinting towards him, followed by her brother and the miqo’te sorceress.

“Did you lose something?” He asked, presenting the frog for her to see. It croaked apologetically in his hands.

The girl in the red jacket finally reached him, bending down to brace her hands on her knees as she painted for breath. “Yes!” She managed, emphatically. “Thank you! Erenville, was it?”

“That is correct.” He nodded. He glanced down at the amphibian hanging limply between his hands, similarly exhausted. “Your friend was close to becoming a meal for a common whittret.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, still catching her breath. She looked up at the frog and scowled. “Rhiki! You mustn’t run off like that! You’re going to get hurt! Or eaten!”

“And it would serve her right if she did,” By now, the sorceress had joined them. Having not pursued as frantically, her voice was still calm and even. She affixed the frog with a disapproving stare. “You may find our debates on the nuances of aetherology dull, but if you insist on wandering off to have your own… froggy adventures, it is you who will bear the consequences. You are fortunate that Erenville was here to come to your rescue this time.”

The frog emitted a dejected ribbit.

Erenville looked up to the woman, then back down at the frog. “I did not realize that such transmogrifications occurred so frequently in your line of work.”

“They don’t!” The other elezen, the boy in blue, piped up. Though he had fallen behind his sister he still sounded winded. “We don’t know what happened! Y’shtola transformed us to… well, I’m sure you remember. You were there, after all. After that, the spell wore off and everything was fine. Until, all of a sudden, Rhiki just changed back!”

The sorceress – Y’shtola, he presumed – crossed her arms and drummed her fingers against her sleeve in thought. “Even had I re-cast the spell when the second transformation occurred, its effects should have dissipated by now. No, something has gone awry, though I know not what.”

“I see,” Erenville said. Aetherology had never been his field of study, but he could see what the problem was, and he seemed to know as well as they did what its cause might have been. “Do you currently possess the means to reverse the spell’s affects?”

Y’shtola hummed thoughtfully. “At present, no. I shall have to contact Master Matoya. Mayhaps she will be willing to share some insight. I doubt any scholars currently residing in Sharlayan will be as knowledgeable, but there may be tomes within the Studium’s library that could yield answers. Z’rhiki’s aether has undergone periods of instability in the past, so it is highly possible that a similar phenomenon is at play here. In the worst-case scenario, we may have to identify a solution through trial-and-error, though I am loathe to attempt anything that might cause further fluctuations in her aether.”

“A-anyway, thank you again for saving Rhiki,” the girl in red said, having composed herself somewhat. “We’re sorry for troubling you again. We can take her back now. We’ll try to keep a closer eye on her until we can find a way to fix this mess.”

Once again, Erenville gazed down at the creature. Frogs possessed no complex emotions, so it was difficult to tell what the amphibious imposter might be thinking. He frowned, deliberating for a moment, before responding:

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I- What?! Surely you must be joking! What do you mean 'Absolutely not'?!” The boy stammered, eyes wide and concerned.

Erenville shook his head calmly. “I do not think that course of action is wise.”

“And why is that?” Y’shtola asked. Her voice remained mild, though a chill had crept into it. She would hear him out, at least. If she did not care for what he had to say....

He inhaled. “Your friend may not know how to behave like one, but in this form they share all of the limitations and requirements of a true frog. Frogs are amphibious; they require access to water. Their skin must remain moist, or it may break, and they can become very ill. This subspecies is native to a sub-tropical climate, which means it will suffer if the temperature drops too low for too long. These are just a few of the many considerations one must make when caring for such a creature. Do you know what diet is appropriate for this type of frog? Do you know the best way to handle it so as not to injure it? Have you ever cared for an amphibian before? Have you ever cared for any animal before?” He scanned the varying levels of discomfort on their faces. “No, I will care for the fr- our friend. You should focus your efforts on finding a way to reverse the spell’s effects.”

“You needn’t go to such trouble,” Y’shtola attempted to assure him. “We wouldn’t want to disrupt your work any further. I am certain we could make arrangements-“

He shook his head. “It is no trouble. I will remain in Sharlayan for a while longer, attending to matters here. It will be of little consequence for me to care for them for a short while. Your friend has informed me that I am her friend, so you can consider this a favor to a friend. It would put my own mind at ease, and free yours so that you may devote all of your attention to finding a solution.”

“I… suppose that does sound rather practical,” the boy said thoughtfully. “You did say you were an expert in frogs, did?”

“Yes,” Erenville nodded solemnly. “Frogs, and many other plants and animals.”

The girl in red looked between her brother and Y’shtola. “Well, we should at least see what Rhiki thinks, shouldn’t we?” She turned back to him and bent down slightly so her eyes were level with those of the frog in his hands. “Rhiki, would you be alright if we left you with Erenville for a while? Ribbit once for yes, twice for no.”

“Ribbit.”

The girl straightened up. “Well, there you have it.”

“It’s decided, then.” Y’shtola said, her voice carrying a sense of finality. “Erenville will care for Z’rhiki for a short time, and we will devote ourselves to counteracting the spell’s effects. Erenville, thank you once again for your assistance.”

He shook his head again, slowly. “Once again, it is no trouble. I will supply you with the address of where I am staying while in Sharlayan. I assure you, your friend will be well looked-after. You may come to claim them when you have found a way to reverse the transformation.” He allowed himself a small smile. “Or, when you have become responsible amphibian owners.”

They took several minutes to finalize the details of the arrangement before the Students of Baldesion, or so they called themselves, readied to take their leave.

“Rhiki, behave yourself. And be nice to Erenville,” Alisaie, whose name he had just learned, instructed the frog, Rhiki, ere they departed. She chirped in response, which seemed to be the best sign of agreement any of them could hope for. With that, the three bid farewell, leaving Erenville standing in the middle of Labyrinthos with Rhiki in his hands.

“Well then,” he said, looking down at her. “I suppose I should find you a suitable tank.”

“Ribbit.”

[impossible-rat-babies]

4, 17, 21, and 24 for the wol questions? 🫶

ty dani!! <3

[wol ask meme]

4. do they have a canon mount or minion? what's its name(s)?

kinda-ish? there’s mounts that I as a player am attached to, and mounts that would be canon for eyrie lol

their chocobo Gingko is very important to them. they received her along with their soul stone when they finished their training as a free paladin; she’s a descendent of the chocobos that the ishgardian paladins took with them after their exile. they’re known for being a very hardy chocobo and ones cope well with the cold; they are also fiercely protective breed and stubborn to a fault; she listens well to eyrie, but bets are off for other folks. she’s a very close companion of eyrie through much of their time in ARR and throughout heavensward.

later on they end up with the mount Grani. I don’t know how it fits in the lore, but Grani is there and is eyrie’s very important weird “”dog””

they do have the white whittret minion who is named Cricket. it’s actually an accidental familiar—eyrie had no clue for a long time that that was the case.

17. who is their favorite alliance leader? who do they get along with the best out of them?

they enjoy working with Raubahn the best/get along with him very well, but their favorite is Aymeric. the two of them have been close since the Vault and their friendship with each other is something they both value dearly

21. are there any raid storylines (ivalice, coil of bahamut, werlyt, etc.) you consider to be canon for your WoL? which ones don't you consider canon?

canon: coils of bahamut, crystal tower, omega, pandæmonium, myths of the realm + bozja & eureka

loosely connected: eden, werlyt

not canon: ivalice, nier

I dunno man: void ark, alexander, four lords

24. does your wol have any phobias?

no, not truly. but, very young infants freak them out a little/they don’t like touching babies. the smell of pine needles bothers them a lot.

[minarcana]

DOSSIER CHEAT SHEET

LEGAL NAME : Laurel Ainsley on her Limsan immigration forms. Technically her only 'real' name is Laurel, she has no last name and 'Ainsley' was just the previous first name she used. NICKNAME[S] : N/A DATE OF BIRTH : Oct. 15, about 250 years ago. GENDER : Demigod (she/her) PLACE OF BIRTH : Northward mountain range some distance from Garlemald. CURRENTLY LIVING : Limsa Lominsa / Wherever she ends up stopping on her journeys. SPOKEN LANGUAGES : Eorzean. An almost mutually unintelligable dialect that grew from a mixing of Dalmascan/Garlean/Eorzean. EDUCATION : No formal education. She picks things up as she goes, and if something isn't practical or widespread, she likely doesn't know it. HAIR COLOR : White with pink tips. EYE COLOR : Bright red. HEIGHT : 6'6", more with shoes on WEIGHT : 200ish lbs

FAMILY INFORMATION

SIBLING[S] : Rowan. Youpan. Poppy. Willow. Cecily. Birch. Heath. Marjoram. Sorrel. Alder. Willow. Probably more by now considering her 'family' is almost entirely adopted as her mother cares for the orphans found in the area or rescued from Garlean violence. PARENT[S] : Juniper (Mother). [ ??? ] (Father) RELATIVE[S] : Sees most of the population of her village as her relatives. A good amount of aunts, uncles, and cousins by blood. About 15 eorzeans she has declared as her dad. CHILDREN : none, but i will make kids for her in aus. if anyone wants. js. PET[S] : a white whittret that accompanies her on some travels.

RELATIONSHIP INFORMATION

SEXUAL ORIENTATION : pansexual. RELATIONSHIP STATUS : verse dependent but generally open and down to clown. SINCE WHEN : ;)

tagged : i stole it lol tagging : yeah

[nerimaemae]

;A;

[ffxivlilmeowmeow]

6 and 25 for the ask game!

6.Current Glam and 25.Favourite Minion

I have been loving this picto glam since I put it together and have been using it a ton! White whittret is my favourite minion! (Brina is a cloooose second)

Thank you for the ask! 💕

Also sorry this is so late, I reblogged the ask post and just dipped for a few days and didn't log into this account OTL

[kaijubluedreams]

My main through the ages! I started in July 2017 as a fem highlander (who you may vaguely recognize as Cassiel...). I played as her up until someone flirted with me/her in a dungeon and I freaked out.

Enter M Au Ra (Feb 2018). He's fun, I liked dressing him up. I took some good gpose screenshots with him when I still bothered messing with reshade. Also the white whittret makes it's first appearance, I got it on my first run and have used it almost exclusively since.

Alas, I missed my girl, so I was back to her around June 2018. And always forgot to hide my dear whittret. And then...

I got the lalafell bug (Jan 2019)! They are so much fun to play, just little balls of chaos. I had a lot of fun playing dress up with her (dress up is 75% of the reason I play this game). This was also when the namazu head came out (I love namazu) so I had a lot of fun with that.

And then hrothgar came out! (June 2019). I really love m hrothgar. They're big and goofy and adorable. They are such a bitch to glam though. It's hard styling a fridge. But I played him for quite a while, through almost all of ShB.

And then I made myself a smaller catboy! (August 2020). I quite like m miqo, especially the /joy emote (ear wiggles!!)

Back to lalafell at the very end of the expac (Jan 2021). I think this was when I was trying for the Saint of the Firmament title and losing my mind in the Diadem.

And then I had another crisis, but in the tall direction (April 2021). I wanted to play dress up and I wanted some boobs, so fem roe it was! I really liked being taller than Estinien for a while. I also really liked taking screenshots with her.

And I think that's about the picture limit for tumblr, so click here for part 2!

[myreia]

As We Move Forwards

CHAPTER TWO: YOU ARE THE END

Chapter Rating: Mature (for some sensuality, nothing explicit) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Thancred Waters Pairings: Aureia/Thancred Chapter Words: 4,712 Notes: Set post-Endwalker, spoilers for the base expac. Summary: With the Final Days averted and the world in recovery, Thancred and Aureia finally have some time to themselves. It’s nice—good even—to spend time alone, focusing on the things that matter most. But as they depart on a trip across Ilsabard, the question of what comes next lingers in his mind. Where do you go from here? How do you pick up the pieces of something broken and put it back together? Prompt: wolcred week - i. warmth | home Chapters: part one • part two Read on AO3

Something rustles in the grass.

Filo raises his head and lets out a shrill kweh, wings rustling to and fro in warning even though he does not see fit to stand. Aureia turns sharply, brows drawn together, balancing her bowl in the palm of her hand as she searches for the source of the disturbance. Thancred sits up straight, muscles tensed, and follows her gaze. One hand reaches of the hilt of his gunblade. Beside him, Nox slumbers on, the carbuncle unbothered by the commotion.

The grass ripples, swaying back and forth in a zigzag, coming closer and closer—

It stops.

Aureia frowns, eyes narrowed. “That’s enough.”

The grass shudders, chittering. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume the grass was laughing. 

“I’m serious, that’s enough—”

An acorn pops up out of the grass, sails in a long, wide arc, and lands squarely in his bowl.

Plop.

Thancred curses as broth sprays upwards and splashes over the edge. He shoves the bowl into his opposing hand and shakes the other one out, grimacing at the offending grass. To neither his nor Aureia’s surprise, a familiar, furry grey thing emerges from the grass and flies across the clearing. It leaps and clings onto his leg, clambering up at great speed. Its claws dig into his wrist as it flings itself at his bowl, seizes the acorn and springs off, landing adroitly on the ground and before scampering off to the far side of the campfire. Only then does it pause, triumphant in its retrieval of the acorn, bushy tail waving back and forth.

“Twelve take me…” Thancred passes a hand across his forehead. “So, that’s where you’ve been hiding—”

The grass rustles again and out pops a blur of white and yellowish fur. It streaks round the fire and seizes the acorn, its long, fluid body twisting over a log and disappearing to the far side. The nutkin’s ears flatten, its nose wriggling as its dark, liquid eyes seethe. The whittret wriggles back and forth, its head popping up one moment only to duck down the next as it searches for a way out. It holds the acorn close, clutching it to its chest.

“Oh, for the love of—”

The nutkin pounces. The whittret reels back. They roll together in a clump, wriggling and chitter, throwing dust in the air as they bat the acorn back and forth between them. Filo snaps his beak and goes back to sleep, covering his head with a wing. Nox stirs, his floppy ears perking up, and squints at the scuffling pair. He bears his fangs (until this day he did not know carbuncles could have them), hisses once in warning, then curls up on himself.

Thancred lets out a weary sigh and glances at Aureia, only to find her sitting cross-legged in silence, peacefully finishing her soup as if the commotion did not exist. A moment later, the nutkin and the whittret run off into the grass and chase each other up a tree, taking their dispute to further heights.

He watches them go, a hand pressed to his open mouth, and slowly runs his palm over his chin. “I have some regrets about this,” he says finally. “Many regrets, in fact.”

Aureia snorts with laughter. “They would have followed us anyway—”

He gives her a sour look.

“—and even if they didn’t, did you really want to leave them in Old Sharlayan? So close to the Noumenon. Could have chewed through countless priceless books.”

He grimaces and sets his bowl down by the edge of the fire. For some reason he has lost his appetite. “When I imagined what married life would look like, camped malms outside Terncliff surrounded by a merry band of creatures characterized by varying degrees of bad attitude—”

She grins.

“—was not part of the equation.”

Her eyes sparkle.

He rolls his own.

Still chuckling with laughter, Aureia gets to her feet and takes his bowl, stacking it with hers. She pats Nox fondly on the head, then murmurs a thank you and an incantation, dismissing the carbuncle for the night. “Castor and Nutkin are a handful, but you have to agree they do make the days more interesting,” she continues as she sets about cleaning up.

“We certainly have collected a strange following, aye.” He folds his arms and sinks into the log. She was never much of an animal person, at least not back in Ul’dah. Neither was he, come to think of it. Funny how things change. Filo and Castor chose her as surely as Nutkin chose him and now they are constants in their lives whether they like it or not.

(It’s a point of endless amusement to both of them that she chose names for her chocobo and whittret, even her carbuncle, and yet the nutkin remains distinctly—and untheatrically—Nutkin.)

“May I help?” he asks after a moment.

She shakes her head as she scrapes the bottom of the pot, dumping the burnt and crusted remains into the fire. “Oddly enough, I like this part,” she replies. “So I hope you don’t expect me to summon a host of familiars to do the task for me. I’m sure Matoya is a fine instructor, but some leaves are best left in their books.”

“Aye. Between you and me, I’d rather not wake to a horde of poroggos and enchanted brooms, or—gods forbid—nixies.”

“Careful now. Wouldn’t want me to pass that on to Y’shtola.”

“I’ll brave the danger.”

She laughs, flashing him a grin as she fetches water from their flasks and cleans the pot and dishes. The firelight flickers over her hands, her pale skin glowing in its warmth. It strikes him as a peculiarity. She may have unparalleled command of fire-aspected aether and create fireballs out of thin air, but it’s rare to see fire and flame as something other than a destructive force. Her hands are calloused, worn and reddened from the work. She has forgone most of her customary rings, all save two: a black and silver ring that was a gift from Nanamo long ago and the ring he gave her a week before their wedding. Not a wedding band, per se—neither of them would call it that—but still significant.

It is one of the few personal belongings she has brought over from the First.

“But I must ask,” she adds after a moment, pausing to brush hair out of her eyes. “When you envisioned what married life would look like what was part of that equation?”

The question is simple. Direct.

He pauses. For a moment there is nothing but the sound of crackling flames, clinking dishes, and the wind in the trees.

“You,” he says finally. “Only you.”

Aureia catches his eye. Exhaling a long breath, she sets the dishes aside to dry and settles into the grass, legs curled beneath her, hands clasped on her knees. She seems hesitant to speak, whatever thoughts going through her mind lost to the seconds slipping by.

He remembers when he asked her to marry him. A different time, a different place, a different world. It was during their first night camping in the Empty when the thought occurred to him. Ryne and Urianger had already retreated to their tents and gone to bed. Her head was tucked in the crook of his neck, his fingers tangled in her light-poisoned hair, their eyes trained on a little sliver of moonlight shining white against the aether-starved wastes. The idea occurred to him then, dropping on him as if from nowhere, the realization of how content it made him taking him by surprise.  

So he held her close and murmured the question without hesitance, without fear. He had already wasted so much time playing the fool. He couldn’t anymore. There was no thought given to what would come after, for in that moment it was the only thing that felt right.

“That was the problem, wasn’t it?” Aureia says finally, her voice gentle.

He closes his eyes. Those few months on the First—between the defeat of Emet-Selch and the downfall of Elidibus—were like a dream. Despite the challenges they faced becoming a very real living nightmare, it was a dream nonetheless. Life was easier in Norvrandt, sequestered away as they were from the pressing matters on the Source. Simpler. Straightforward.

Returning forced them to wake up.

Back then it was unfathomable to think their marriage was a blunder. But now he knows it was a mistake—a sweet mistake, but a mistake. They rushed headlong into it, blinded by love and impulsiveness and the fear that if they did not act now, the chance would pass them by. He wasn’t ready for it. Neither of them were.

They couldn’t know what was in store for them.

“Aye,” he says finally. “Far the from the first time I can shoulder the blame for not thinking things through, but…”

She pauses. “Do you regret it?”

Thancred opens his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Aureia regarding him, her ruby gaze open and honest. A reminder that she sees him for what he is, flaws and all—just as he sees her. He could say yes and know she will not judge him for it. It is the answer she expects, after all. They were married too soon, too quickly. That is the truth, plain and simple—but his feelings on the matter?

Not so easy to untangle.

“There are times where you have all but broken my heart, Aureia,” he begins. “To foist the fault solely on you would be a disservice. I am certain I have done the same to you, stubborn fool that I am.”

“We don’t have to go over this—”

“I would like to, if that is amenable to you.”

Her lips twitch. “I suppose I did ask the question and open the floodgates. I’m listening.”

His eyes flick upwards, meeting hers. “To think what these past months have done to us… You and I both know better than most what it means to solider on. To be the first on the front line to shoulder the burden and carry the weight so others do not have to. But when you stand that far forward, who is there to carry your weight when you fall? Who protects the protector?”

He exhales a breath and folds his hands together, resting them on his knee. Why is this so damn difficult? She is the one person whom he trusts more than anything, more than himself, with whom he knows he can be outright honest, even when that honesty hurts. “I have never been angrier with you than that night in Garlemald,” he continues. “When we…”

“Separated. You can say it, Thancred.”

A lump forms in his throat. “I did not know what was happening to you. I did not know how to help. I have never felt more helpless than the moment I watched you walk away to storm the Tower of Babil.” The words are coming in a rush now, like ripping a bandage off a freshly healed wound. “Perhaps I held onto that anger. Let it boil into resentment. I should not have said the things I did that night before the Ragnarok’s departure, and I cannot take those back.”

“And I can’t either.”

“When I think on it… I am afraid I have failed you, in ways I never should have.” He exhales again, his breath shaky. “Perhaps we have failed each other.”

She nods quietly, a little too quick to agree. Some part of him wishes she would refute it, but she must have come to this conclusion months ago and made her peace with it. How could she not? This is the crux of the matter, the thing neither of them dare voice. They journeyed to Ultima Thule bristling, furious with each other, their conflict unresolved—

And then he died.

Survive, he commanded as he gave himself up for her, for all of them. Survive, he said, even as he was torn asunder and his essence scattered across the stars. His last word to the woman he loves, his need for her to live on bleeding through whatever anger and resentment remained in his heart that day.

The rest is a blank. His resuscitation, the return of their friends, their journey through the Dead Ends. He let her go, to fulfill her final duty—the Endsinger and then Zenos—without him.

And then she died.

How does a marriage come back from that? How does one pick up the pieces of a shattered life and put them back together again?

The wind whistles, rustling the trees. The woods hums, alive with singing insects and chittering creatures and a birdcall or two. Beside them, the fire crackles and pops, burning at last down to its embers. They will have to add more firewood to keep it going.

Neither of them move.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Aureia says. “Do you regret it? Marrying me?”

Thancred smiles. “I don’t know,” he replies. “If we had waited for a better time, a better place, we could have very well waited forever. Risk is a part of life, is it not? To take a chance, a leap of faith, even if nothing comes of it in the end. But this I do know—I do not wish to die with any more regrets, Aureia. Once was enough.”

Her expression softens, barely visible now in the dim light. Slowly, she unfurls from the ground, moving with that preternatural grace a lifetime of combat has gifted her, and closes the distance between them. She stands before him, the tips of her fingers trailing across his cheek, brushing hair from his forehead. Then she cups her hand to his jaw and tilts his head up, bending down to press her mouth to his.

Her lips are soft and warm, her kiss more sweet than bitter. There are a thousand hurts to mend, but they are mending—with patience and understanding and compassion, and most importantly, with time.

He trembles. His arms wrap around her as if they have a mind of their own, his fingers twined in the fabric of her coat. He clutches her to him, a sob resonating somewhere deep in his throat, and kisses her back—deeply, avidly, the warmth of passion ignited in his chest.  

They could live a life apart if they had to. They could manage to say goodbye. It would hurt worse than any wound either of them have suffered—perhaps worse than death, which sounds dramatic until one remembers it is a state both of them have experienced—but they could manage it. They can press on.

It’s what they’re good at.

And it is not what either of them wants.

The Gridanian bards have more than one song about lovers destined for one another. But it is a fantasy. A nice one, true, but a fantasy is still a fantasy. It is not what they have. Love is a choice, one they make every day. And they have chosen that this is not the end.

It is work. It will be work. But he has never once taken the easy path in life and he doesn’t plan to start now.  

Thancred kisses her again, fiercer this time, his mouth hot and firm against hers. She murmurs something, the words lost, and her knees buckle. He grips her tight and slides off the log, sending them tumbling to the ground. She gasps in surprise, loose hair in her eyes, her laughter ringing across the clearing as she curls up beside him.

It is as though they have not just had one of the most difficult conversations of their lives.

He stretches out, his back to the log, holding her close. She responds in kind, her lips parting as she kisses him deeply, and hooks a leg over his thighs. It’s easy enough to pull her into his lap and she settles there freely, her arms around his neck. His hands roam her back in idle patterns, fingernails scratching the thick leather. Her weight adds a comfortable, enticing pressure.

Too enticing.

He shivers, a burst of goosepimples running down his spine, and it is not from the cold. His mind wanders, distracted by her touch, her kiss, and the idle fantasies they cultivate. The two of them entwined in the grass, hair unbound, clothing dishevelled, breath hot and skin aflame as the starlight blossoms above them. The music of her voice, the touch of her hands, the feel of her above him—

Gods, how much he needs her. How much he wants her. How easy it is to be lost in her.

His heart clenches, desire already clouding his mind. A pace away, the campfire burns, the dying fire warmer than a hearth on a cold snowy day.

He draws back, his teeth scraping his lower lip as he sucks in a breath, and presses his forehead to hers. “Shall I get more firewood?” he murmurs. His fingers brush her jaw, trailing up and up, over the point of her ear to tangle in her hair.

She pauses, her fingers tightening in his hair. “No. It’s late. We should let it burn out.”

His other hand wanders across her back and up her side. “It will be cold if it burns out.”

“Yes.” She inhales a shaky breath as his palm brushes her breast. “Perhaps.”

Encouraged, he tugs at her shirt, eager fingers searching for buttons. Her hips roll as he presses a kiss to her jaw, her neck, finding his way to the hollow of her throat. The gasp he elicits strikes him to the very core.

They haven’t slept together since before Ultima Thule. There has been no time, no opportunity. Her recovery left her somber and listless, and in desperate need to escape the suffocating concerns of the Scions and their extended friends. Three days in and she fled to Ishgard, seeking out the steadfast company of Sidurgu and Rielle, then travelled to Mor Dhona and crossed over to the First.

It stung him to know she had to go so far away to heal. But it was for the best. He wasn’t capable of giving her what she needed. But her time with Ryne—her daughter in all but name—and in Lakeland—the only place she wishes to call home—was.

“Thancred…”

Her voice is soft, murmuring in his ear.

He undoes another button. His palm slips beneath her shirt, skimming across soft skin.

Her fingers rake through his hair. “Thancred…” 

He stops, cradling her, his face still buried in her neck. He knows that pause—the catch of her breath, the sudden tensing of her body, the shift of her weight. The subtle signals, whether she intends them or not, that she has changed her mind. Even after a year and a half of marriage, of learning the unspoken language of her body, he still cannot follow how quickly she shifts from “yes, and” to “no, not now,” her boundaries changing as rapidly as the tide.

He doesn’t understand it, this push-pull between desire and disinterest. She has tried to explain it to him, how she does not feel attraction in the same way most do, nor to the same degree. But he doesn’t have to understand. All he needs to do is listen.

“Aur,” he murmurs. “Are you all right?”

She sighs. Slowly—almost apologetically—she wraps her arms around him and holds him close. “I’m sorry,” she says, brushing her lips against his forehead. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

He closes his eyes. Were this a story—or one of those songs those damnable bards sing—there would be another conclusion. All wounds can be healed with love, and love… well. Too often it is taken as a synonym for physical intimacy. A younger version of him would have believed it, attempting to resolve their issues with sex. He did a fair amount of that once, using the company of others to numb himself to his problems. But Aureia is not like him, her limits in a much different place than his.

It has done him some good, he thinks.

“Is that all right?” She sounds so small, so distant, even when he is in her arms.

He raises his head. Though he feels a flicker of disappointment, he cannot know what is running through her mind or why she declined—only that she did. “I am content to be with you,” he says, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

She smiles. Kissing him gently on the cheek, she rolls off his lap and settles beside him, legs curled beneath her, her head on his shoulder. They sit together in silence, watching the flames die down. The moon has come out, its half-crescent brilliant against the night sky’s deep indigo. Filo’s outline has disappeared into the black of the trees; Castor and Nutkin have long since vanished. They will return come morn.

“I do want to,” Aureia says after a moment. “But I think… I think I still need time.”

He puts an arm around her. “You do not need to explain yourself to me.”

She slips her hand into his, twining their fingers together, and raises her head. “Just know that several ideas have come to mind,” she adds, catching his eye. “For the future.”

“Oh?”

“Ilsabard is a large continent. We’ll be on the road for months. There’s plenty of time to… well. Let’s just say that I’m not opposed to a starlit adventure or two.”

“Not moonlit?”

Her nose wrinkles. “The moon is far less romantic once you know what’s actually on it. Rabbits who talk your ear off for one. A giant abyssal hole for another. Allagan spaceships. Carnivorous extrastellar fungus.”

“Hm.” He makes a face, a horrid thought occurring to him. “Point taken. In fact, I would rather not consider the manner of adventure you just proposed when there is a high possibility that Urianger is up above.”

“…did you have to mention that?”

“If it came to my mind, then I must put it in yours.”

“You ass.”

“Naturally. Only for you, Aureia darling.”

The campfire burns, the last of its small flames licking the ashen remains of the firewood.

“I’m glad we came,” Aureia says. She has curled even closer to him, her head on his chest. “Did I tell you the proposition Tataru gave me?”

He kisses the top of her head. “No.”

“She has procured an island in the Cieldalaes. Uninhabited, private, somewhere that could be a home away from home.”

He pauses. This talk of home feels… odd. Off. Unnerving. Perhaps it’s because they already have a home, an apartment in Mor Dhona, as Tataru knows full well. Just as she knows full well that it has become little more than an uninhabitable storage room and filled with useless junk. Or perhaps it’s because he struggles to think of Aureia with a home. They are wanderers, the pair of them. This campsite could be as much a home as any Ul’dahn estate or Crystarium residence or island sanctuary.

“What did you say?” he says finally.

“I told her I would think about it.” She sighs. Her fingers grip his hand, unwilling to let go. “She means well, of course. And I would be lying if I didn’t say the idea is appealing. Good weather, sun and open sea… a whole island to myself. But I don’t think it’s what I need. I can’t sequester myself away, Thancred. The twins may be in Tertium, but there are plenty of other places across Ilsabard that need assistance.”

She swallows hard. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what defecting from the Empire meant. What it still means. The provinces… the former provinces… This land was once my home. I could have helped these people, run an underground resistance, used my knowledge and my skill to do something to help them. Instead I turned my back on them. Thinking only of myself and getting out.”

“A harsh assessment, don’t you think? You, of all people, have done more—”

“It’s not about who has done more, who contributed the most effort, who has done enough to prove that they were always on the right side, that they cared enough.”

Her tone is sharp, pained. It still grieves her, years later, that she took as long as she did to defect. This is a constant sorrow, one she will perhaps carry for the rest of her life. No matter what she does, no matter how much she sacrifices—even going to the ends of the universe—it will never be enough to make up for the circumstances she was born into.  

She is not alone. There are thousands—hundreds of thousands—like her. Hyur, Elezen, Au Ra, and more, born in the Garlean provinces after occupation. Born not knowing anything else. How many died resisting? How many lived complying? How many were like Aureia’s mother and father and brother—or even like Fordola—who joined the Garleans personally because it was the only path they saw forwards? And where does it all leave them now?

There is much to recover from. Not just the Final Days, but from the broken shackles of the Empire. Somehow burning skies and Blasphemies and lethal despair is easier to recover from than decades of imperialism. How did Erenville put it?

The Final Days came and went.

“There’s work to be done, Thancred. People to help. And not in the way that the Alliance or the Forum can. Leave the politics to the politicians, to Aymeric and Hien and—gods help me—even Fourchenault. I am thinking smaller than that. The village herbalist who can no longer gather the herbs she needs because fiends have moved in. A travelling merchant who needs an escort because their companion died and they no longer have the funds to hire another adventurer. The local alchemist the next town over who is raising his best friend’s infant daughter because her parents are dead.”

He pauses, his hand rubbing her back. “Thavnair hit you harder than you thought it did, didn’t it?”

She presses her lips together, a shaky breath caught in her throat. “I went back to Palaka’s Stand recently,” she says. “Yezahn and Pasareen are doing well.”

“…and the baby?” He feels odd asking. He’s uncertain why.  

“She’s well, too. Tiny little thing, but growing fast. When they let me hold her I thought she would break in my hands. My arms hurt afterwards like I had just spent three hours training with Estinien. Yezahn says it’s because I was tensing, I was so scared of hurting her.”

“It… didn’t occur to me that could happen.”

“It didn’t occur to me, either.” She pauses, relaxing, the stress of the moment passed. “I don’t know what help I can give. I don’t know the state of these lands, I don’t know what’s going to happen to them. But any help I can give… if I can give it, then I want to. Not because I am asked, not because it is my duty, not because I am the only one capable—but because I want to.”

Despite the weariness in her voice, her determination is fierce, unyielding. This is how she is—once an idea has come to mind, she commits to it wholly. He is proud of her, for coming to this conclusion. A sign that she is finally ready to heal.

Thancred lets out a long breath and kisses the top of her head, running his fingers through her hair. Drowsy though he is, he has little desire to move. Her weight is comforting and warm against him, a contrast to the lumpy log he is leaning against. He eyes the fire, the embers burning at its base.

Soon there will be naught but ash.

“Aur?” he asks.

“Mm?” She is falling asleep.

“I am grateful for this. Grateful for you. I want you to know that.”

She squeezes his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

He could not agree more.

[emetkoto]

🎫

K'otos canon minion is the White Whittret, and it's a little pet of his he met early in his time living in Limsa. He found it scrounging around in garbage cans for food and and it seemed scrungly and angry just like 13-15 year old K'oto after fleeing the Empire in Doma and losing his whole clan in the process so he befriended it and it's been with him ever since :) it's a little bastard animal that likes to work together with his chocobo to distract him and steal his food all the time (and it always works bc K'oto is not the sharpest tool in the shed) and runs away as soon as there's any sign of danger <3 his name is The Man for reasons I literally do not know that's just what it is. Divine inspiration. Oh yeah also minor detail it's kind of uhhhhh a voidsent :) like the Fat Cat <3 K'oto has no idea ofc until post-EW when Zero comes back to the source with them and is like "Hey. I know that guy. He owes me aether." and K'oto is just like ?!?!?!?