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Roevember #1&2: Name/Roots

Wilfreda Bos'nwyn

Sahja had just sat down to mend some clothing when the distinctive thunk-thunk of her husband’s workboots coming up the stairs pricked her ears. Odd—she thought—since his ship wasn’t supposed to return for another fortnight. While the weather had certainly been miserably stormy as of late, he had sailed through worse in the past without issue. Eyeing the door, the miqo’te quickly folded up her work and set it aside. Whatever the reason for his arrival, then, was sure to be far more interesting than needlecraft.

All at once, man and rain alike surged across the threshold as the cottage door blew open. Sahja’s husband, Arland, was soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead under a sodden cap. And yet, he was grinning wildly, his eyes glittering. In his arms he bore a mass of sailcloth, freely dripping from the rain.

“Sahj, my girl, ye won’t believe the cargo we picked up in Limsa this time!”

Sahja glared at him, but she couldn’t help smiling at his unexpected intrusion. “Whatever it was, it had better be worth you emptying the whole o’ the Rhotano onto my clean floor.”

“Bah! You’ll forget the floor, soon as you see this. Here, help me make some space.”

A table was cleared, and the Hyur placed his burden in the center. Sahja peered over his shoulder and watched as her husband, with unusual gentleness, began to unwrap the sailcloth. The bundle had several layers, and as more was removed, she could swear whatever was inside was… moving?

He paused before lifting the last of the sailcloth. “Sahja, I know you always dreamed o’ chasin’ after little ones, but that was something I was never able to give ye. Well, I reckon Nymeia finally smiled on us—”

A wail interrupted him, and Sahja’s eyes widened as she seized the last of the sailcloth and tossed it aside. Safely swaddled from the rain was another bundle of blankets... enveloping the largest baby she had ever seen.

* * *

“—So the bosun cracks open one o’ the produce crates, looking for the source of the mewlin’,” explained Arland. “No doubt expectin’ to find a kitten or some such. But what does he find but a bleedin’ baby! Thought he’d taken stock of one too many ales ‘til I saw her with me own eyes.”

“Who in the hells puts a baby in a crate in the first place?” wondered Sahja, exasperated. Her arms were exceedingly full as she struggled to hold a rag dipped in sheepsmilk to the squirming infant’s lips.

“Eh... probably some desperate brothel girl who couldn’t afford to keep ‘er, I’d wager.” Arland thoughtfully puffed away at his pipe, much drier after a fresh change of clothes and a seat by the fire. “Probably in a hurry too—left no note with the poor girl, not even a name.”

Sahja glanced up from the child. “She doesn’t have a name?”

“Well… She’s a Sea Wolf, obviously, so the lads have been callin’ her ‘Bos’nwyn,’ on account o’ the bosun being the one to find her. But seeing as the only names I ever invented were for ships, I figured I’d best leave the forename to you.”

A name. Sahja gazed down at the baby’s face, which had relaxed with the feeding. Her own name and those of her sisters had been passed down through their clan, but a Miqo’te name didn’t seem fitting for a Roegadyn child. On the other hand, Sea Wolf names were a mystery to her—apparently full of meaning in the old Sea Wolf language, but exposure had taught her only the most common words. No, it would have to be something else. Lost in thought, her eyes wandered to look at her husband, and an idea emerged.

“Your mother… her name was Wilfreda, yes?”

Arland’s eyes closed, and he smiled softly, lowering the pipe to his lap. “Aye, Wilfreda. She’d have been well pleased to have a granddaughter.”

“It’s a lovely name. Then, Wilfreda… Bos’nwyn, was it?”

Wilfreda Bos’nwyn, content at last, drifted to sleep in her new mother’s arms.

“Well now, our little turnip’s come home! Bring back any new tales for your ma and pa?”

[viiioca]

Roevember XIV Day 3: Invitation

We first met in Limsa Lominsa during the crisis with kidnappings.

I didn't think much of her at first - just another adventurer. If anything, that curious bauble replacing her eye was of more interest to me.

But then, not only did she boldly go for the root of a problem that promised more danger than reward, she bested an Ascian and their Voidsent pet all alone.

Impressed as I was by her courage and prowess, I extended her an invitation to the associates of the Scions.

To my surprise...

...she refused.

[viiioca]

Roevember #3: Invitation

Pirate AU - an "invitation" from the captain of the Hydra's Heads

with @verysmallcyborg 's fornax

[viiioca]

Roevember Day 3: Invitation

"I'm just saying - if it's adventure you seek...you could do far worse than to come with me." "...it's been a while since the last one, it's true... but I'm gonna need a little more than that. Before I accept your invitation..."

"...it would help if I had a better sense of what kind of warrior you are." "Oh? Goodness, to think one of the Warriors of Light would challenge me...! Well - hah! Who am I to refuse?"

plus some bonus shots that i liked

[viiioca]

Roevember Day 3: Invitation

It all started with an invitation.

Working together in Camp Dragonhead, Eyri was drawn in by the kind knight - a handsome Elezen man with a curved nose, sky blue eyes, and a shock of silver hair. The curl of his lips, though, is what broke the mask of pure, good knighthood. He was good, no doubt, but he was not beholden to the vow of celibacy as most knights...not in the sly way he flirted, nor in the way his eyes lingered on her.

And for her part, she could hardly tear her eyes away, too. She reciprocated every teasing remark, swayed her hips a little more than she usually would, and took every opportunity to brush her arm against his.

And so, it started with an invitation: a door held open as he bid Eyri and her accompanying Scions good evening; a gentle, questioning hand placed on the small of the Roegadyn's back.

"Should you need me, I will be in my quarters." Came soft words, only for her ears.

It was enough to make her breath catch, enough to send a shiver of anticipation through her. She smiled at him as she passed through the door, gaze staying for a moment longer.

"Save some cocoa for me, then." She whispers.

[prompt list]

[viiioca]

Roevember 2024, Day 3: Invitation

Behold the newest addition to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn!

Just... give her a moment... She may need some time to wrap her head around it all.

Ena agreed to join the Scions before fully understanding what she had gotten herself into. Not that she felt like she had much choice in the matter. She did have the Echo, indeed, but she didn't consider herself much of a fighter at the time.

[viiioca]

Roevember 3: Invitation

Whaddaya say, join me for a drink?

[viiioca]

Roevember Day 3: Invitation [Pirate AU]

"... You invited me over for a dance? A dance, of all things, captain?" "Aye, that's right, sea puppy. A captain's dance." "Eeehhhh, I dunno 'bout this, I was never one to get involved with dancing, 'specially not with my height..." "As if that would scare me. Come! Captain's orders." "Fine, fine. For you."

Later that evening...

The captain and her most fierce, loyal guard dog have their dance together, perhaps not the best, but far from the worst, for there is not a soul in the world in that moment... except for the two of them. Inevitably, there were fumbles, tripping, mayhaps even a bit of competition for one or the other to keep the lead. In that moment, it wasn't a captain and her guard dog. Fornax and Ryssrael were kindred souls. They were lovers in the night, not a care in the world while they were unknowingly drunk on love. She got her "second part of the dance" with them, after all.

ryssrael is @oneiroy's roevember prompt list

[viiioca]

fly my to the moon

and let me play among the stars

in other words

hold my hand

- frank sinatra, fly me to the moon

roevember day 3 - invitation + stars

[viiioca]

His memories of Ala Mhigo had always been hazy; he'd barely seen his third summer when they fled, taking only what his mother could carry.

Growing up in Ul'dah, his mother would tell him stories of high red stone walls gleaming in the morning light. Of city squares echoing with drums and dancing. Of markets teaming with merchants from every corner of Gyr Abania, the old man who sold the best tunics, the coffee vendor who would read your fortune in the grounds for an extra coin, the grandmother of thirteen who sold kube and yaprakh from a tiny stall while lamenting how great her misfortune to have so few descendants.

Of the day they would return.

He had waited five and twenty years to lay his eyes on those walls, following the Bull of Ala Mhigo to war against his mother's wishes and all good sense... but the drums were silent, the dances forgotten, the vendors long gone...

Only echoes remained.

Roevember Day 2 - Roots

[viiioca]

[ roevember day 3 - invitation ]

From the journal of Estelle de Laussienne, 22nd of the 4th Astral Moon, 6 7A.E.

Who would have imagined mercenary work would be so prestigious? I could dress the title up a bit for dignity, I suppose, but there's hardly any use pretending that I'm here for "adventuring" purposes. Heroism is off the table as well, sadly; the only thing left on the mountain are bodies and a rather robust, shall we say, spiritual ecology, with some friendlier than others. I can do little to deliver the already dead.

Still, to receive an invitation deeper into Hingashi is its own honor, regardless of the circumstances -- which speaks to the severity of the problem. Hingashi entertains no foreigners beyond the gates of its only open port. For a liege lord to grow so desperate as to invite an ijin not only to his lands, but a holy site therein? Well. You don't call a godkiller unless you expect you need to kill something like a god, and an ijin godkiller only if you have exhausted every other possible avenue. If Hingashi's nobility is capable of half the dramatics of Ishgard's, this is going to be quite the blow to this man's reputation. One does not recover from such a shame easily, quickly, or cheaply.

Ah, well. The local political landscape, while a delightful diversion, is largely not my business. I shall focus instead on my task here -- and if I should do my fill of sightseeing before I am escorted back to Kugane, so much the better. If Hancock is going to be walking out of here with trunkloads of precious cultural artifacts, they're hardly going to confiscate my watercolors at customs.

[viiioca]

Roevember : Roots

"Not often do I get to explore the same mountains I used to run around as a kid. Still as beautiful, and as cold as I remember them being. One of the perks of living in the middle of nowhere, Coerthas. A great view, and gaining a resistance to the frost."

[viiioca]

RoevemberXIV (2024)

Day 2 - Roots

Morgana is extremely close with her parents and paternal grandparents. As an only child & grandchild, she's certainly never been starved for care or attention, and makes sure to keep in contact even on her more grand adventures.

She's holds nothing but contempt for her maternal grandfather, and has only had the displeasure of engaging with him on a handful of occasions. However, she and her mother make regular visits each year to the grave where her maternal grandmother is buried.

[viiioca]

Roevember 2024, Day 2: Roots

Ena doesn't really have a place she can call home since she travels a lot, being the Warrior of Light and all, but she enjoys visiting libraries. The books and the overall atmosphere are relatively similar and comforting, no matter the place.

[viiioca]

@reconditerune surprised me with Angeline's job stone, something she's left clattering at the bottom of her bag for almost her entire journey. When she pulls it out to look at it, she can't quite remember what it looked like before... but it certainly didn't look like this! Funfetti to the max.

@archaiclumina also contributed to the symbology and made certain to include a horseshoe. CHOICE 💖💖💖🤩🤩🤩🐎🐎🐎

[viiioca]

Drawn by the delightful @reconditerune with conceptual help from @archaiclumina ! Aisling’s jobstone, all her own. I love it so much- and @angelinecarax even beautifully described it like “Aisling’s dreams all stitched together” and the??? Yes??? Gosh????

And the symbol, a star in the crest of a wave…. Fuuuuuck 💜✨⭐️💖👾

[viiioca]

[ roevember day 2 - roots ]

from the journal of Estelle de Laussienne, 16th of the 2nd Astral Moon, 5 7U.E.

The longer I spend outside of Ishgard, the more I am coming to understand our national attitude towards The Southrons. Perhaps it is even our fault in the first place for fostering these preconceptions; the mind is lovely, fertile soil for all sorts of ideas -- of varying degrees of truth -- to take root. I suspect it is the case for mountain peoples the world over, but the bones of Abalathia especially have made proud, headstrong, independent creatures of us. Quarrelsome. Frequently insufferable. Outside of our borders, we are known best for our bad weather, our dour scripture, and our intractable government, and we make no attempt to hide that we are proud of these things. Look, we say! Look at how well we can survive. How strong this makes us. How resilient.

The Southrons think we are living in a perpetual state of abject misery. Worse: there is an almost ghoulish impulse to confirm this to be true. The disappointment in their eyes when I say it's not so! The Ul'dahns think us all frozen paupers draped in thin cottons, eating the blandest broth and bread for three meals a day. They think I must be indoctrinated to poverty when they ask what I miss most about home and I have such ready answers: the bounty of our bakeries, the quality of our wool, the body of our wines. The Limsans, too, pity us for different reasons no less patronizing. How suffocated we must be under the pressure of our rules! Imagine not having the ability to freely come and go from your own home! Are our traders not at your tables? Am I not here, now, speaking with you freely? Perhaps we simply prefer the warmth of our own hearths. Perhaps we are satisfied with sailing the skies above Ishgard, and the bounty of the islands found there.

And the Sharlayans. Maybe their disdain for violence is what makes them so ready to pick fights in more cerebral arenas, as if some weighty suppression of a natural urge forces it to escape through the most convenient release available. It is not enough to think us miserable, no -- they make the argument that we must be miserable, and it is my responsibility, somehow, to defeat them in this little impromptu duel they have initiated. Does your conscience not suffer terribly under the weight of generational killing? Do you not feel oppressed by your corsetry? Are you not obligated to answer for your state's inequality of wealth and power? How much do you resent living under theocratic rule?

It is all kindly worded, of course. Oh, they say, but it must be so terrible! -- do not mistake this for sympathy. They are probing for evidence. By knowing that the land that nurtured us is deficient, they confirm that the land that nurtured them is superior. They can be assured that we are being adequately punished for our failings.

I would not admit to them that yes, it was quite miserable to grow up in Ishgard. But there were good days, too -- when my Echo was not so sensitive and my family was home, together, unhurried and content. When winter, soft as snowmelt, dissolved into spring and the first magnolias unfurled their petals on the promenade. When the little birds came back from their Twelveswood roosts, timing the seasons with their song. When the summer festivals ran late into the night and the air was thick with woodsmoke and crispy-skinned roast pig and the swelling voices of any still sober enough to hold a tune. Would we have lasted these centuries of war if there were no joy to be found in living?

Would we have fought so hard to protect what we had if there was nothing of value there to protect?