sittingduck-ffxiv

[sittingduck-ffxiv]

The Reunion Festival was in full swing, and Sitting Duck was already sweating—and not from the summer sun.

Banners of old battles flapped above the village square. Food carts sizzled. Musicians tuned their instruments while actors stretched theatrically near a wooden replica of a Titan arena built entirely from stage props and optimism.

Duck stood awkwardly near the festival announcer’s stand, holding what he could only describe as a prop axe’s distant cousin. It was foam. It wobbled.

He looked like a child’s drawing of a warrior.

“Hey, Mister Duck!” came a bright voice.

A small Miqo'te boy no older than ten ran up, his hands sticky with candy, his face smudged with chocolate. He pointed excitedly at Duck’s chest. “I remember you! You won the prize in the Egg Hunt! You were, like, super cool!”

Duck blinked. “I was?”

“You ran from that huge chocobo! It was awesome!” the boy said, beaming. “I wanna be a tank like you someday.”

Duck stared, mouth slightly open. His ears didn’t twitch in embarrassment. For a second, he didn’t feel like a walking punchline.

“…Thanks,” he said, softly.

Behind him, Stool Pigeon watched with an unusually quiet smile.

The stage was set.

Smoke poofed from hidden canisters. Duck took his place at the center of the fake battlefield as a wooden “Titan” loomed behind a curtain, ready to be dramatically unveiled.

The crowd cheered.

He peered over his shoulder. The crowd was really cheering. They were happy.

Sincere.

Off to the side, was a familiar face. Roxxy Glamshine, head-to-toe in dazzle pink, had her tomestone raised with her back to the action. Every time Duck blinked, she was in a new pose, searching for the elusive perfect shot.

Well, at least she's not laughing at him.

The curtain falls, revealing the primal in all his fabricated glory.

More cheers.

The show was on.

Duck cleared his throat and delivered his opening line, voice quavering.

“I… shall stand as your shield!”

Applause.

He looked down at the foam axe. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

As the words left his lips, his nose scrunched. He sniffed the air – his nose hairs uncomfortably fidgeting. The itchy sensation crawled through his nostrils, expelled with a prompt sneeze.

“Is that… burnt marshmallow?”

She lowered her hands, the crackling aether fading with a coiled sizzle.

From under her dark hood, her crimson eyes bore into the figure of Sitting Duck standing before the pathetic imitation of a god felled by the Warrior of Light.

Those eyes flicked into the crowd. Pigeon. Paira. Bird Brain.

The whole family was there, watching the boy who believed he could soar.

She clicked her tongue and curled her fingers toward her chin.

Watching.

At first, Duck thought it was part of the show.

The air shimmered with heat. Aether cracked across the square like lightning veins.

His nose twitched again – his eyes shot open with realization. His hands instinctively crushed the foam axe with a nervous squeeze.

“Summoning magic,” he whispered.

The wooden Titan shuddered, then shattered — splinters flying as something real emerged from the mist.

Titan.

Not a costume. Not a prop.

The primal – mostly. But enough.

The villagers screamed and scattered. Stalls collapsed. The sky turned a shade darker.

Duck stumbled back, stunned. His heart dropped into his boots.

Then he saw her. The cloaked woman standing amidst the chaos – calm, expression unreadable. Her gaze met Duck’s across the square.

She smiled.

Then vanished.

Duck turned and found his mother barreling toward him.

“Ma!” he shouted. “Get everyone to safety!”

She stopped short, face livid. “Don’t tell me—”

Then she saw him.

Greatsword at his back. Shoulders squared. Eyes blazing, golden and defiant.

Soaring Eagle. For a moment — he stood there in Duck’s place.

She blinked away tears, yanked his real weapon from behind a stall, and shoved it into his hands. “Make me proud, baby.”

He nodded, gripping the hilt.

Titan roared.

The first hit nearly killed him.

He was flung across the square into a makeshift confetti cannon, emerging moments later in a cloud of glitter and bruises. He groaned, staggering upright.

Titan advanced.

Duck spat blood and swung again.

He was bleeding, his vision swimming, and Titan’s fists kept pounding like festival drums of doom. Around him, people were still fleeing at Paira's command.

“Duuuck!” a familiar voice rang out.

Duck's ear flicked towards the sound.

Pigeon was standing on a supply crate, clutching a bow he’d clearly snatched from Roxxy’s display.

Ignoring his mother's pleas, he watched his brother battle against a mightier, insurmountable foe. Titan's might crushed Duck over and over, determined to make the foolish Miqo'te part of the land itself.

But after every blow, Duck got up.

Pigeon looked down at his notebook peeking out from his satchel. The bow in his hand.

He had to do something.

Plink.

Duck looked down at the arrow that clattered off of Titan's body and down at his feet. He felt the primal's attention shift – grinding stone that rumbled as it moved.

His bones shrieked as he followed its gaze to Pigeon.

Another plink.

And then, Pigeon began to sing.

Badly. Passionately.

“The Duck who faced a god of stone, With muddy boots and heart alone…”

It was ridiculous. Off-key. Heroic.

Duck chuckled. Then he got punched again.

He hit the ground hard. Everything ached. His vision blurred.

And then he saw the worst thing.

The boy from earlier — his fan — was standing in front of Titan.

Holding the foam axe.

Titan’s fist rose, casting a sinister, malms-long shadow.

“No—!”

Instincts took over. A chain uncoiled from around Duck's arm and before he knew what was happening, it latched taut around Titan’s fist. With a bellow, Duck pulled.

The fist redirected — straight into Duck.

WHAM.

The fist slammed into him with the force of a dozen warmachina. His armor shattered into a million pieces, revealing a bloodied, broken torso.

But he didn't move. His feet were rooted to the ground, his teeth clenched.

He. Didn't. Move.

The boy was safe. Yanked into Paira's care while Duck held Titan at bay.

A rage roiled in his breast as he stood his ground. An unrelenting scream erupted from somewhere deep inside his broken body.

For once, in this fleeting moment, Titan seemed small. Ineffectual. Blow after blow was ignored by Duck's defiant will, the chain keeping the false primal in place and the last of the bystanders to flee.

Pigeon continued to sing while plinking arrows at Titan.

Duck found an odd comfort in his brother's voice, but the words came in and out as he tanked Titan's rage.

Words about his speed at the egg hunt.

His improbable victory in the coliseum.

Mentorship. The neverending duty. A goblin rescue.

They inspired him. Moved his feet when were too tired. Lifted his arms when he simply couldn't.

But it wasn't enough.

The chain fell from around Duck's arm. Every breath was its own battle – through bloodied teeth and broken ribs. The muddied visage of Titan's glowing core filled his view as Pigeon's voice faded.

The shape before him moved – the round, shuddering mass of rock elongating into an oval. He couldn't lift his head to see the fists coming down.

He closed his eyes.

As the moment stretched, he thought of his brother. A smile that shone brighter than the calamity. He was never angry or frustrated. He always knew what to say – even when the kids wouldn't stop bullying Duck over his name.

He hoped he could be like him – he hoped he was him. Now.

For Pigeon.

He smiled.

The blow never came.

Something grabbed him from the inside. An ice cold grip that yanked his very being from certain death and to the side of a a slim, graceful Elezen woman with dark hair in flowing braids. He slammed into her, sending her backward a few paces.

"Excuse me!?" Elisabet Rousseau chirped, her elegant Ishgardian accent several octaves too high. "The baddie is over there."

"Who…?" Duck wheezed.

A sweet warmth filled as body as she spoke, restoring his fatigue, vision, and the sound of Pigeon's voice.

"Get him!!!" Pigeon shouted.

Duck flung around to the sound of cinder blocks crashing against living stone. A Midlander with a Pink faux hawk was spinning Titan in circles. She was a blur of fists, feet, and wonton destruction.

Titan couldn't keep up with her speed, but it was clear it wouldn't last forever.

Duck felt a shove in his back.

"You heard the boy," Elisabet spat, "get him."

He obliged.

"Hey!" Duck called to the false primal. "I'm still standing."

Titan's golden eyes narrowed as it rumbled to face Duck.

Duck swallowed hard. Elisabet's healing magic gave him his breath, but things were still broken.

He gritted his teeth and charged ahead.

The four of them battled. Axe, fist, arrow, and magic. Pigeon continued to sing tales of Duck and Eagle. Bystanders dared to get closer to watch.

Murmurs and gasps became shouting and cheers.

Titan's core was exposed again.

"Hey, uh, punchy girl," Duck said, pointing at the core. "Break that thing!"

Larielle Dunn's foot dug into the ground. Without hesitation she sprinted at Duck. Dumbfounded, he lowered his body, only to have her foot stomp on his back. He reflexively lifted upward, giving her a boost as she delivered the final blow, shattering the core with a clap of thunder.

Titan bellowed one last time, crumbling into a pile of rocks and fading into a mist of aether.

The only thing Duck could hear was his own, ragged breath. He looked up. Pigeon hugged his waist. Elisabet adjusted her white robes just so and gave him a wink. Larielle shook some pebbles out of her gi.

They won.

The crowd erupted.

Paira rushed over, tears streaming, voice loud enough to shake the heavens. “THAT’S MY BOY! YOU TOOK DOWN A TITAN!”

Duck winced. “Ma… ribs…”

“Took you ten episodes,” Pigeon said, voice half a sob, “but you did it.”

Duck grinned, exhausted. “Start the next one with that.”

Bird Brain wandered in from nowhere, arms folded calmly.

“Even a duck learns to fly,” he murmured, “if the wind believes in him.”

Pigeon blinked. “Dad… did you just write my next chapter title?”

Duck winced when his mother let him go with a hearty pat on the shoulders. A few fulms away were the two unlikely adventurers that jumped in to lend a hand. Pigeon, standing as tall as he could, sidled under Duck's arm to walk him over to them.

“Thanks for your help, we –” Duck started.

“Elisabet Rousseau," Elisabet said, her Ishgardian accent returned now that the furor of battle has faded. She curls her fingers around her staff, “Pleasure."

“What?” Pigeon chirped. “Plooshoore?”

“Don't mind him,” Duck apologized. “He doesn't get out much.”

Elisabet smiled. “You can take a punch. Next time… maybe don't.”

“Noted,” Duck chuffed under his breath, feigning a weak grin. “And you, um, punchy –”

“D,” Larielle said, almost knocking duck off balance with a hard slap on the shoulder. “Or L. Dunn. Larielle if you're being stuffy. Nice to meet ya.”

“Nice hair!” Pigeon said.

Larielle fluffed her pink faux hawk with her hand. “Thanks, squirt.”

“It's Pigeon,” Pigeon corrected with a snort.

“Weird name, but I respect it,” Larielle said with a smirk. “You two fight pretty good. Always down for a workout.”

“Well, this chance encounter was,” Elisabet paused, a slender finger tapping her chin, “fortuitous? A quaint village.”

“It's our home!” Pigeon said.

“Quite,” Elisabet said.

“And you,” Larielle popped her fists on her hips. “What's your name? You know, in case we cross paths again.”

Duck smiled down at a glowing Pigeon who smiled back. He looked up at Larielle's unshaken confidence and Elisabet's elegant aura.

He straightened, ignoring the pain.

“I'm Sitting Duck,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

[sittingduck-ffxiv]

There were exactly three things Sitting Duck had hoped to avoid today: glitter, shouting, and responsibility.

Instead, he stood in the ruins of all three.

The glitter came from the "Congratulations!" sash still looped around his shoulders — a leftover from another accidental tournament win. The shouting came from his mother, Paira, who had reached a decibel level usually reserved for bardic finales. And the responsibility? That came in the form of a very broken, very sacred, very irreplaceable family heirloom: the Spirit-Touched Vase of Hooters Lineage, now in sixteen sad pieces on the living room floor.

“It was a reflex spin,” Duck explained.

“Indoors???” Paira boomed, arms akimbo. “What were you celebrating? Consecutive poor decisions?!”

Bird Brain, perched cross-legged on the windowsill, murmured, “The vase has fulfilled its physical cycle. It is now free.”

Paira didn’t even look at him. “You’re on house arrest, Duck. No adventuring until I say otherwise. Grounded.”

Duck sagged, blush creeping up his neck like a rising tide. “Yes, ma.”

From the hallway came the creak of a door. Stool Pigeon peeked in with a grin that was entirely too wide.

“Bird, we’re going to the market,” Paira commanded. “ Your son needs time to think. And make this house SPOTLESS!”

Kai Vance stood in the doorway like a harbinger of funk. The Highlander's bronze skin gleamed as the light broke around his chiseled shoulders. He surveyed the party with a chaotically exacting eye.

He popped his collar and sauntered in, growling “Time to turn up.”

Meanwhile, Duck's mouth was agape. He stood in the kitchen as people seemed to multiply by the minute.

Over the music, just outside, he could hear them. A dragon. A car. An armored adamantoise. Every mount that could be unmounted, was.

Pigeon appeared by his side, wearing a worried grin and over-sized sunglasses.

“Soooo… quick thing. Minor thing. I might’ve invited a few people over. For morale. Just a little gathering. Small. Cozy.”

“How many people is ‘a few’?” Duck asked slowly.

Pigeon winced. “I might’ve used the words ‘open invite’ and ‘raid-wide’ in the party finder announcement.”

Duck swallowed hard.

Suki arrived in a swirl of sparkles, followed by Erias dragging a collapsible dance pole and two mood lanterns.

“This is gonna be great!” Suki proclaimed.

Erias gave her a half-turn, her flowing – and revealing – dress shimmering in the light of a disco ball. “We'll see,” she muttered with a glance down her nose.

The living room rug vanished beneath a sea of foot traffic. Duck’s apron appeared seemingly of its own will, and soon he was cooking, blocking doorways, diffusing potion experiments, and — at one point — holding back a dance line with a wooden spoon.

“Don’t touch that!” he barked as a rogue carbuncle eyed the pantry. “That’s Ishgardian tea! It’s not festive!”

Pigeon, meanwhile, was everywhere. Laughing. Dashing from guest to guest. Organizing impromptu costume contests and critiquing dance routines. He’d even found a megaphone again. Duck didn’t want to know how.

“Welcome to Duck’s Dungeon Bash!” Pigeon declared from atop a dining chair. “Where the walls are flimsy, the snacks are cursed, and the host is contractually forbidden from leaving!”

Duck nearly dropped the tray of skewers.

By mid-afternoon, Duck’s eye had developed a twitch.

Panda rated his third dish with a flat “7,” then asked for napkins “with more texture.” Someone started sparring in the bathroom. Glitter coated the entire bookshelf. Erias’s pole had migrated to the hallway.

And Pigeon?

Pigeon was beaming.

Duck caught glimpses of him in every direction — dancing with Suki, challenging Kyre to a staring contest, leading a conga line that accidentally summoned a weather effect.

And yet...

Every time the pot boiled over, Duck fixed it.

When a guest slipped on potion sludge, Duck cleaned it.

When Rina and Kai exchanged sharp glances with clenched fists, Duck placed himself in between.

He never stopped moving. Never stopped fixing. Never asked for help.

It wasn’t until the punch bowl exploded — again — that Pigeon finally stopped laughing long enough to notice.

The front door opened with a boom.

Paira stood in the doorway, her arms full of groceries, her face somewhere between thundercloud and maternal doom.

The room fell silent in stages. A few sparring guests froze mid-pose. Someone dropped a maraca.

Paira scanned the room.

And then she saw Duck — apron askew, soot on his cheek, holding up a broken serving tray to shield a family photo from a rogue confetti cannon.

Her expression shifted.

Not to rage.

To guilt.

She set the groceries down. “You,” she said to Pigeon. “Outside. Now.”

Pigeon slunk toward the door, but not before glancing back.

Duck met his eyes.

He didn’t scowl. Didn’t accuse. Just gave the faintest shrug that said: I had it covered.

Cleanup took hours.

Guests trickled out. The music faded.

Eventually, Duck collapsed onto the front step, arms resting on his knees.

Pigeon sat beside him.

Quiet, for once.

“I didn’t think they’d all show up,” Pigeon muttered. “I figured, you know, maybe five.”

Duck didn’t reply.

“You didn’t have to fix everything,” Pigeon continued. “Could’ve just let it crash. Let me deal with it.”

Duck let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

Pigeon looked down. “And you’d try to protect me.”

Duck gave a weary half-smile. “It’s kind of what I do.”

They sat in silence.

From the shadows behind them, Bird Brain’s voice floated through the window.

“A house is not defined by its walls,” he mused, “but by the noise within them.”

Pigeon chuckled. “That was almost normal.”

Duck nodded. “Almost.”

Pigeon leaned back. “Next time... I’ll clean the punch bowl.”

Duck raised an eyebrow. “Before or after it explodes?”

Pigeon grinned. “Define ‘before.’”

Duck groaned, but there was a laugh underneath it.

The next episode and season finale: "Standing Duck".

[sittingduck-ffxiv]

The wind howled as Sitting Duck hoisted himself over the final ledge of the trail, boots scraping stone, breath misting in the chill mountain air. The summit lay ahead—just beyond the crooked torii gate and a circle of wind-battered feather carvings that shimmered faintly in the fading light.

“Made it,” he panted, straightening and brushing a stubborn branch from his shoulder. “You’d have liked this climb, Eagle. Probably would've leapt it in three bounds and landed with a somersault.”

Silence answered him, broken only by the faint clink of armor and the distant screech of a hawk. Duck smiled wistfully. The idea that Soaring Eagle had once stood on this same peak — training for weeks on end — made his chest ache in a way that felt both proud and hollow.

He stepped into the shrine clearing.

And froze.

A cloaked figure stood at the edge of the cliff, framed by clouds and wind. Tall. Poised. The breeze caught the hem of their coat and flared it like wings. And the sword they held? Feathered hilt. Gleaming blade.

Duck’s heart slammed into his ribs. “Eagle…?”

The figure turned, golden eyes glinting from beneath the hood.

“You dare defile the memory of the Skyborn Sentinel?” the figure said, voice cold and theatrical.

Duck blinked. “Sorry — wait, what?”

The blade rose.

The fight began.

Sparks flew as greataxe met gleaming sword. Duck staggered back, narrowly deflecting a spin that might have taken his tail off.

“This… is a misunderstanding!” Duck grunted, blocking another slash. “I’m not here to defile anything!”

“Silence, fraud!” the stranger barked. “Only those pure of purpose may duel upon the Summit of Echoes!”

“That’s not even a real place!”

Somewhere behind a rock, Stool Pigeon peeked out, whispering into his linkpearl, “Live update: Duck currently being dramatically judged by a cosplaying legend. Suspicious hair physics in full effect.”

Duck redoubled his stance, gritting his teeth. “I don’t know who you are — but I’m not letting you insult my brother’s memory!”

The cloaked figure paused, then struck a majestic pose. “Then prove your worth… in combat!”

The wind swirled. A hawk cried. Drama intensifed.

They clashed again—Duck panting, muscles screaming, while the stranger moved with all the elegance of a bardic ballad come to life.

Until they both missed.

And both collapsed.

On their backs. Groaning.

“…Too much… heroism,” Duck wheezed.

“…Not enough hydration,” the figure replied.

Moments later, with a shared canteen and two pulled muscles between them, the truth emerged.

The cloaked Miqo'te pulled down his hood, revealing sandy fur, sharp features, and very familiar golden eyes.

But not those eyes.

“Diving Falcon,” he said, brushing dust from his gear while flashing a fanged smile, “Soaring Eagle’s greatest admirer. Founder of the Winged Whispers newsletter. Author of Legends in the Sky: Volume I.”

Duck stared. “You’re… a fanboy?”

“A historian,” Falcon corrected, “but yes. I’ve studied every surviving tale, every blurry painting, every whispered rumor. I even re-enacted the Fall of the Feathered Bridge in interpretive dance last spring.”

Pigeon, still perched behind the rock, gave an impressed whistle.

Duck, still catching his breath, couldn’t help but laugh. “So this was just… cosplay combat?”

Falcon shrugged. “Theatrics are how we keep stories alive.”

“And the name?”

Falcon chuckled and raised his hands in surrender. “Z'Dhey Tia. Just a…”

Duck tilted his head as Falcon paused.

“…just a skinny kid who once met a tribeless Miqo'te nice enough to give him this."

Falcon lifted his blade, bringing the hilt into view. Duck eyed the worn feather charm – an Eagle staple.

He poured tea from a dented kettle and passed Duck a steaming cup. It tasted like bitter moss and misplaced ambition. Duck drank it anyway.

“Maybe that’s what my brother was, then,” he said. “Not just a warrior, but a story.”

Falcon nodded. “And thanks to you, that story continues.”

The sky burns gold as the brothers descend the winding path from the shrine, mist curling at their ankles like fading memory. Duck walks ahead, still animated from their brush with legend.

“I mean, did you see that stance? That sword twirl? It was just like Soaring Eagle used to do. Like — like maybe he trained that guy or something. Maybe he really is out there…”

Behind him, Pigeon is uncharacteristically silent.

Duck slows, ears twitching. “Hey. You alright back there?”

No answer.

He turns to find Pigeon walking a few steps behind, his usual swagger replaced with something smaller. His hands are curled tightly around his ever-present notebook, thumb worrying at the frayed edges.

Duck frowns. “Pigeon?”

The younger Miqo’te stops. His eyes are wide but uncertain, golden gaze flicking up toward his brother’s.

“I, uh…” He swallows hard, tail low. “I never wrote anything about Soaring Eagle.”

Duck tilts his head. “What? But you write everything — every fight, every prank, even that time I got stuck in the armor rack.”

Pigeon’s grip on the notebook tightens.

“I couldn't remember what his voice sounded like,” he murmurs. “Then the shape of his nose or how he had his hair. It was like he was disappearing, but right in front of me.”

Duck takes a step forward, but Pigeon holds up a hand, shaky.

“…so I write stuff to help me remember. You’re always running off to fight stuff. What if… what if you don’t come back? I don't want you to disappear, too.”

The air stills. Even the wind seems to quiet.

Duck’s expression softens, the bashful flush on his cheeks deepening — but for once, it’s not embarrassment.

He kneels to Pigeon’s level and places a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice low and steady. “Not without my annoying, loudmouthed, chaos-wielding little brother.”

Pigeon blinks fast, lip quivering—but no tears fall.

Duck smirks. “Besides. Who else is going to write my heroic saga where I heroically fall off things?”

And with that, he ruffles Pigeon’s carefully misarranged hair, earning a half-hearted swat and a muttered “Ugh, why are your gauntlets always sticky—”

They walk on, side by side, the mountain behind them and the stars just beginning to peek through the clouds above.

The next episode: "House Arrest".

[sittingduck-ffxiv]

The village square was already in full swing when Sitting Duck shuffled into view, half-dressed and wholly unprepared.

Bird Brain stood barefoot atop a fruit crate, robes inside-out, whispering to a disinterested bird.

“The moon has coughed,” he intoned solemnly. “The cheese must be flipped.”

Paira, wielding a broom and the power of maternal prophecy, marched through the plaza like an angry weather front. “Stool Pigeon’s missing!” she bellowed. “And don’t give me any of your featherclock nonsense, Bird! This isn’t the second coming of the soup ladle, this is your son!”

Duck froze mid-step, the crust of bread in his mouth suddenly dry. “Wait—what do you mean, missing?”

“He didn’t come home last night,” Paira said, hands on her hips, her voice wobbling despite its force. “Not a peep. Not even a prank.”

Bird Brain nodded. “Ah. So he has entered the spiral of spontaneous ascension. Or the goblins took him.”

“...The goblins?” Duck’s ears twitched.

“Yes, yes,” Bird Brain waved vaguely toward the cliffside woods. “Tis the season.”

Duck didn’t wait for more metaphors. He grabbed his greataxe, slapped on his dented shoulder plate, and muttered under his breath, “Please be okay, Pigeon. Please just be hiding again.”

It wasn’t just the worry in his voice—it was in the hurried way he buckled his chest strap wrong. The way his tail bristled, his gold eyes scanning every shadow like they might swallow someone he couldn’t protect.

In the swirl of village madness, no one noticed the smallest figure among them.

A white-haired Lalafell with faint blue streaks moved through the chaos like a silent waltz.

Panda Soulist, arms laden with a satchel bursting with shiny junk, was focused with the intensity of a scholar mid-thesis. She crouched by the well, delicately retrieving a soggy, glitter-speckled ribbon and slipping it into a labeled pouch.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t make a sound.

One moment, she was peeking under a cart for lost buttons. The next, examining a cracked locket with reverence. A small creature scurried near her feet—she hissed softly, and it retreated in shame.

The villagers bustled around her, oblivious. But if one looked closely, she was always there, like a gathering breeze before a storm.

And then she was gone, vanishing behind a pile of firewood like a whisper made of thread and magnets.

The forest trail was a mess. Not a clue. A mess.

Ribbon-wrapped tree trunks. Pebbles arranged into crude smiley faces. A half-eaten melon impaled on a stick with a note that read: “I demand tribute.”

But Duck followed it all the same. Quiet. Alert. Concern sharpening his senses like a whetstone.

Pigeon got into trouble — sure. But this? This was too quiet. Too strange. And Duck had seen what goblins could do.

He pressed through the underbrush faster. Every broken twig felt like a punch. Every bird call like it might mask a cry for help.

“I swear,” he muttered, voice trembling between irritation and fear, “if you’re just playing oracle for laughs, I’m gonna —” He stopped. Sighed. “No. I’ll just be glad you’re alive.”

Inside the mossy cavern, the air was thick with mushroom spores and the scent of old cheese.

Goblins chanted in a crooked circle, candles flickering around a makeshift altar of upside-down cookware. Atop a crate throne sat Stool Pigeon, dramatically swaddled in scarves and necklaces with a colander on his head like a prophet’s crown.

“…and lo!” he declared, flinging jellybeans into the crowd, “when the sky sneezes thrice, your socks will never match again!”

The goblins erupted in awed cheers.

Duck burst in, armor clanking, axe raised high.

“Step away from him!” he bellowed.

The room froze.

Pigeon blinked down at his brother. “Duck? What are you —?”

“I thought you were dead, you idiot!” Duck’s voice cracked. “I thought the y—” He swallowed hard. “You can’t just disappear like that. I looked everywhere. I was scared.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Pigeon, still half-covered in goblin beads and holding a ceremonial soup ladle, softened. “You came for me?”

“Of course I did,” Duck said, quieter now. “I always will.”

Pigeon lowered the ladle. “I mean, they were going to carve my face into a sacred mushroom and name their next litter after me.”

Duck stepped forward.

The goblins whimpered. One held up a sign: “Prophet, take us with you?”

Pigeon gave a gentle shrug. “Sorry, my brother’s got the final say. And the axe.”

As Duck hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of onions, Pigeon smiled faintly and added, “You’re a dork, you know that?”

Duck exhaled through a grin. “Takes one to know one.”

Back in the village, Paira ran out to greet them with a banshee wail of maternal fury and relief. She slapped Duck with love and hugged Pigeon hard enough to pop his shoulder.

Bird Brain nodded wisely. “Two ducks. One destiny.”

Behind the alchemy shop, unseen by all, Panda plucked a goblin trinket from a smudge of soot, sniffed it, pocketed it, and disappeared again without a trace.

The next episode: "The Return of Soaring Eagle (?)".

[sittingduck-ffxiv]

The salty air of Limsa Lominsa was always a bit overwhelming—too much sea, too many gulls, and far too many fish trying to escape being fish stew.

Sitting Duck adjusted the shoulder strap of his dented chestplate, which had recently lost a chunk to a duty gone sideways. His coinpurse was lighter than his dignity (which was saying something), and his last meal had consisted of stale jerky and the remains of a healing potion.

He squinted at the banner flapping overhead:

CULINARIAN’S CLASH – Open Challenge! Cook for fame! Cook for gil! Cook for glory!

Duck rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been working on his culinarian skills—slowly, and mostly by accident. But this? This was a chance to earn money and prove he wasn’t completely hopeless in an apron. He smiled faintly.

“Two birds, one stone,” he murmured.

Then winced. “...Why did I say that.”

He approached the registration table and scribbled his name in neat, embarrassed lettering.

The contest's head coordinator, a barrel-chested Roegadyn wearing a frilly apron and an expression of barely-contained theatrics, twirled dramatically to face the crowd.

“Chefs! Gourmands! Aspiring soup alchemists!” he roared. “Today’s ingredient—chosen by tradition and completely random lots—is…”

Spotlights (somehow) illuminated the stage.

“WILD. DUCK!”

A collective murmur swept through the square.

Sitting Duck froze.

The other contestants clapped or cheered.

Duck stared at the raw, plucked carcass now being reverently handed to him like some kind of culinary betrayal. His ears twitched. His tail curled inward. He took a slow step back.

“…nope.”

“Excuse me, EXCUSE ME, culinary tragedy incoming!”

A voice cut through the crowd like a dagger through frosting.

Stool Pigeon burst onto the scene in a flurry of motion: wide-eyed, fast-talking, and already narrating as he skidded to a stop beside Duck. He wore a vest that sparkled in direct light and a sash that read ‘Official Taste Tester (Self-Appointed)’. His tail flicked with glee. In one hand, he held a grilled squid-on-a-stick. In the other, a sign he’d clearly made five minutes ago that read:

“DUCKS NOT DISHES”

“I knew you were doing something weird when you said ‘I’ll be home after the smoke clears,’” he chirped. “And I brought moral support! And snacks. Want a bite?”

Duck didn’t answer. He was staring at the duck meat like it was about to punch him.

“I’m not cooking duck.”

“Oh good,” Pigeon said, beaming. “I’ve already printed flyers. Some of them rhyme!”

Duck turned to the judges, voice shaky but resolved. “I need a sea bass. A really big one.”

Down at the harbor, chaos did what it usually did around Duck: it escalated quickly.

The fish was massive. It thrashed in the tide like an aquatic primal. Dockhands shouted warnings and scrambled out of the way. Duck wrestled with the beast, soaked to the fur, as the fish slapped the planks and tried to take him with it.

Somehow—through sheer determination, stubborn pride, and a grip powered by low blood sugar—he won.

He dragged the defeated sea bass up the docks, armor clanking, breathing like a bellows, and flung it onto his prep table with a thud.

The surrounding contestants stared.

“That’s… not the challenge ingredient,” one whispered.

Duck growled, “It is now.”

A few feet away, A’rina Olfinay paused mid-stride, her booted feet coming to a stop near a shady outcropping of crates. Sweat gleamed on her brow—evidence of an intensive training regimen only she would ever describe as a "light warm-up." Her bronze-toned skin shimmered, and her jet-black hair was tied back in a high, no-nonsense tail.

Her golden eyes narrowed at the scene in front of her: a Miqo'te in waterlogged armor attempting to carve a sea bass with a cleaver that might’ve once been a gardening tool. She sniffed. Her stomach growled.

Reading the banner, she muttered, “Guest judges wanted, huh?”

She side-eyed Duck. “As long as it's cooked it'll be fine… I think.”

The cooking contest reached its final phase. Chefs presented dishes with flourishes and bows. Plates glistened. Aromas wafted. Judges nodded with knowing gravitas.

Then came a dismal moment.

One judge—a sharp-nosed Lalafell with a monocle and the kind of stare that could sour cream—peered at a Hyur contestant’s flamboyant arrangement of skewered duck, berries, and what appeared to be purple glitter.

He took a bite. Chewed. Froze.

“This,” he said coldly, “tastes like despair and shoe polish.”

The plate was dismissed. The crowd gasped.

Then he stepped before Duck’s table.

There was no bow. No flourish. Just a charred sea bass, some wilted herbs, and a garnish of salt that might’ve been tears.

The Lalafell poked it with his fork.

He sniffed.

He took a bite.

Silence fell.

Then, slowly, a single tear trickled down his cheek.

“...This fish,” he whispered, “has seen things. I taste conflict. Salt. Determination. A complete lack of culinary training. But above all—I taste… truth.”

The judges huddled.

A moment later, Duck’s name was called.

“Special Jury Prize: Creative Ethics in Ingredient Substitution!”

The crowd applauded.

Stool Pigeon was already hawking signs with a crudely drawn duck holding a dead sea bass out of a crate labeled “Limited Edition.”

Duck walked off the stage with a golden spatula in hand, his ears still pink.

At the dessert buffet, A'rina, wearing a hastily written “Rina” nametag, was methodically working through a line of pastries like a general executing strategy. A moogle-shaped tart disappeared into her mouth.

As Duck limped past, she glanced up and muttered, “You did everything wrong and you still won something? Good work.”

He blinked. Then smiled faintly. “…Thanks?”

Later, Duck stood by the railing, watching gulls swoop above the glimmering water. The spatula gleamed in his hand.

He hadn’t cooked duck.

He’d earned his gil.

And, for once, he wasn’t the punchline.

Progress… maybe.

The next episode: "Pigeon Panic".

[sittingduck-ffxiv]

The plaza of Limsa Lominsa was a carnival of colors and cacophony. Seagulls cried overhead. Bards dueled in song. And at the center of it all sat Erias Syrana, an exacting Au Ra dancer with ruby red hair and a mischievous blue-scaled tail adorned with Rowena's finest jewelry. Her legs are crossed daintily on a bench like a judge presiding over the daily fashion trials.

“Hmm. No. Absolutely not,” she muttered, eyeing a passing Summoner whose robe clashed violently with their carbuncle. “If your pet has more glam sense than you, requeue your whole identity.”

A checklist sat open beside her, its header in elegant calligraphy: Today’s Glamour Offenders. Half the page was already filled.

“Honestly, I should start charging.”

A streak of white zipped through the crowd—streamers fluttering, a clamshell mask dangling from one her Miqo'te ears, and a trail of startled adventurers spinning behind her.

Suki Suzuki twirled to a stop beside Erias, holding a suspiciously acquired vial of purple dye and grinning like she hadn’t just stolen it from an unattended market stall.

“I gave the vendor a note that said ‘IOU infinite hugs,’” she declared proudly.

Erias didn’t look up. “You stole it.”

“I emotionally borrowed it.”

The Au Ra sighed. “If you dye another poor soul’s pants without consent, I swear—”

But her voice cut off as Sitting Duck emerged from the guild’s inn, greataxe strapped crookedly to his back, armor clanking like a junkyard parade.

His plate shimmered in strange hues—red, rust, and some sickly glitter that looked like regret.

Erias narrowed her eyes. “Well well. If it isn’t Limsa’s resident disasterpiece.”

Duck froze.

“No commentary,” he said quickly. “I’m just doing one dungeon. Quietly.”

“Oh, darling,” Erias purred, rising gracefully, “you’re doing no such thing. That armor is doing performance art. Is that… twine?”

“It’s… enchanted twine.”

“Reinforced by prayer,” Suki added cheerfully.

Duck groaned, brushing his hand over his chestplate—only to freeze. There, in shimmering pink letters:

HUG ME, I CRIT MYSELF.

He turned slowly to glare at Suki. She winked and flicked her white tail back and forth.

The Duty Finder dinged.

Duck sighed like a condemned man. "Commence."

The world faded.

With a soft chime and a sudden shift of air, Sitting Duck appeared at the dungeon’s entrance platform. Damp stone stretched ahead into darkened corridors, lit only by eerie glyphs and flickering wall sconces that promised nothing but regret.

He took one cautious step forward, then turned to survey his party.

The first one he noticed was the healer—an Elezen Conjurer with flawless posture and an immaculate robe lined with silver vine embroidery. Her name, “Leaf Whispers”, floated above her head in delicate lettering. She didn’t move.

“brb bio,” she said with a vacant stare.

And then nothing. She stood stock-still, like a decorative statue from Gridania’s least interactive museum.

Duck blinked. “O… kay.”

Suddenly, a whoosh of blue light streaked past him.

He caught only a glimpse of the name: “Crits Yourknees.” The name alone was a warning. The dragoon was a Lalafell, barely waist-high on Duck, yet equipped with a dragon-scale helm three sizes too big, spiky pauldrons that bounced when he moved, and a glowing lance longer than he was tall. His armor pulsed with so many particle effects it looked like a rave had broken out inside his plating.

Without a word, he launched himself into the next hallway with a backflip and a “LET’S GOOOOO!”

“Wait!” Duck called. “The healer’s not—!”

“PULL EVERYTHING,” the Dragoon shouted, mid-leap.

Duck groaned.

Then came the bard.

She hadn’t moved either—but unlike the healer, she was very busy.

A tall Highlander woman with perfectly coiffed violet hair and a shimmering coat dyed to match, she stood in a beam of filtered dungeon light, twisting slowly in place. Her bow was slung across her back like a forgotten accessory.

“Roxxy Glamshine” Title: “Heart of the Party” Free Company: Glitter Over Grit

“Sorry,” she said, sparkles practically emanating from her words. “THIS LIGHTING IS EVERYTHING. Must get some shots for the glamgram.”

Duck stared.

Crits’s battle cries echoed from somewhere ahead.

Leaf Whispers remained utterly AFK.

Roxxy struck a pose and added a heart emoji.

Duck pressed a hand over his eyes.

“This is going to be the longest dungeon of my life.”

He readied his axe.

And charged into the abyss.

Back home, nestled between the hanging herbs of their family kitchen, Stool Pigeon lounged in a hammock he’d strung up between two mismatched coat racks. A glass of bubbly tea soda float rested beside him. His linkpearl gleamed in one ear.

He tapped into his favorite linkshell:

“Gossips & Grievances”

“Good evening, gossiphounds,” he intoned with exaggerated drama. “You’ll want to grab your popcorn and your pity because we are live with today’s episode of ‘Tanking with Tears.’”

He flipped open a notebook labeled “Duck’s Worst Moments (Ongoing)”, licked his thumb, and turned to a fresh page.

“In the blue corner, wearing rust-dyed regret and a single sparkle of pride — Sitting Duck! Currently tanking for: an AFK leaf, a Dragoon who believes lag is a myth, and a Bard so glam-obsessed she has her own lighting director.”

From the far corner of the room came a dreamy murmur.

Bird Brain, seated on a kitchen stool and communing with what might have been a tea kettle, slowly turned.

“Even the feather must endure the wind… if it wishes to dance.”

Pigeon didn’t break stride. “That’s very deep, Dad. Also completely useless. But thanks.”

Bird Brain nodded, as if confirming something whispered by the cabinetry. “He faces his trial with burdened plumage.”

Across the room, Paira Hooters was aggressively chopping vegetables. She paused only to slam a ladle onto the counter and bellow at full volume:

“DODGE, BABY! DODGE WITH YOUR KNEES!”

Pigeon flinched, clutching his linkpearl.

“Ma, please, this is a delicate auditory operation—”

“I can feel the AOE from here!” she roared. “If that healer doesn’t return from their bladder pilgrimage in the next ten seconds, I swear I’m marching into that dungeon myself!”

Bird Brain nodded serenely. “The bladder is but the soul’s sabbatical.”

Pigeon groaned. “Can you both please—just for five seconds—let me work?”

Paira leaned toward the linkpearl, voice suddenly syrup-sweet.

“You’re doing AMAZING, sweetheart! Mama’s so proud! Remember to clench when you block!”

Pigeon choked on his float. “He can’t hear you!”

“I know,” she said smugly. “But the Twelve can.”

Bird Brain offered a gentle smile to the empty space beside him. “The axe spins... as fate wills it.”

Pigeon sighed, adjusting the linkpearl again.

“Sorry for the interruption, dear listeners. As you can see, our viewing lounge is very supportive. And chaotic.”

A new message pinged in:

MuffinWarrior: “Tell him I believe in him! But also I bet 500 gil on a wipe.”

Pigeon grinned.

“And with that, we return to our feature: a tale of tanking, twine, and trauma. Buckle up, folks—this glam is about to get real.”

Back in the dungeon, Duck reached the midboss room. The healer was still AFK. The dragoon leapt in without waiting.

“GET KNEESTROYED —” SPLAT.

He died instantly.

Roxxy clapped once. “Drama.”

Duck locked eyes with the boss, then his axe.

“Fine. Let’s do this.”

What followed was four grueling minutes of solo tanking. No heals. No support. Just pure willpower, adrenaline, and revenge against the very concept of matchmaking.

As the boss fell, Roxxy did a pirouette. “We vibed. ✨”

Duck collapsed against a wall.

The final boss room arrived like a war crime.

The dragoon was back. The Bard had changed outfits three times.

The healer returned. “sry cat stepped on router lol.”

Then she promptly died to the first AOE combination.

Duck screamed internally. Then externally.

The final boss exploded in fire and curses. He popped every cooldown, chugged a potion, and leapt into the fray, holding aggro while Crits and Roxxy… were there.

As the last bit of health was mercifully chipped away, the boss fell with an unceremonious whomp. Duck wiped the sweat from his brow.

Finally.

Crits vanished almost simultaneously.

Roxxy cheered. “YOU’RE SO TANKY OMG 💖💖💖”

Back in Limsa, Duck slumped onto the nearest bench, armor smoking slightly.

Erias approached, arms crossed, looking disturbingly amused.

“You lived,” she said.

“I shouldn’t have.”

A pearl-link chimed. Pigeon’s voice echoed:

“Episode five of Duty Finder Doodies now LIVE: ‘The Tank, The Fashionista, and the Toilet Ghost Healer.’”

Duck facepalmed.

Duty complete.

Commendation received.

Just one.

From Roxxy:

“Fashion meets function 💅”

The next episode: "A Feast of Fowls".

[sittingduck-ffxiv]

The forest clearing was quiet, save for the crackle of firewood and the occasional chirp of a distant tree cricket. A dozen young adventurers-in-training sat cross-legged in a loose circle around the campfire, their faces lit with the orange flicker of flame and anticipation. Marshmallows had already been dropped, roasted, burned, and re-roasted. The only thing left was a story.

That’s when she stood.

Kyreanna Galamonte—known to some as Kyre and to herself as “just trying to get through the week without babysitting someone else’s goblin”—rose from her lean against a nearby stump, brushing soot off her scholar’s robe. Her tall, Viera frame moved with refined grace, all long limbs and sharp lines. Her midnight-black hair was streaked with faint blue highlights, tied up in a no-nonsense knot that somehow defied the chaos of the forest.

She adjusted her robe, surveying the gaggle of expectant eyes.

“I don’t do stories,” she said, voice calm and clipped. “I do logistics. And monster identification. And occasionally, algebra. But not stories.”

The children groaned in unison.

She turned to Sitting Duck, who had been nursing a canteen and the vague hope of going unnoticed.

“You, however…” She tilted her head, eyeing his dented armor and slouched posture. “…you scream ‘inspirational figure’ in a tragic sort of way.”

Duck blinked. “What — me?”

Kyre didn’t elaborate. She simply tossed him the ceremonial stick of storytelling – a half-charred branch someone had tried to toast a marshmallow on – then gave a casual two-fingered salute and strolled off into the woods.

She called over her shoulder, “If they’re all still breathing by dawn, I’ll owe you a sandwich.”

Duck stared at the stick. The children stared at Duck.

“…Okay,” he mumbled, cheeks already tinged pink. “Gather around, I guess.”

They did.

With hesitant confidence, Duck began the story of a dire bear. A huge one. Fangs like spears. Claws like scythes. A bridge teetering over a bottomless gorge. And a wagon—no, a caravan—full of orphaned chocobo chicks teetering on the edge of doom.

“I stepped between them and the beast,” he said, lifting the stick like a sword. “And I said—‘Not today.’”

It was going well. One kid gasped. Another hugged their knees.

Then came the voice from the shadows.

“Didn’t you cry because the bear looked at you funny?”

Duck froze.

From the edge of the firelight, Stool Pigeon emerged, nibbling a slightly overdone marshmallow and looking far too pleased with himself. His sandy fur gleamed mischievously, tail twitching in rhythm with his smirk.

“It wasn’t a dire bear,” he added, plopping down onto a log. “It was a beaver. A baby beaver. You screamed and fell into a bush. I’ve got notes.”

He pulled out his battered notebook and flipped it open.

Duck lowered the stick. “It was growling!”

“It was chewing,” Pigeon corrected. “Loudly, yes, but with tiny teeth.”

The kids erupted in laughter.

For the next ten minutes, Duck tried—heroically—to steer the story back. But every attempt was swiftly hijacked.

“I carried three people across a flood,” Duck insisted.

“You tripped in a puddle and had to be carried,” Pigeon countered.

“I outwitted a band of goblin raiders.”

“You shouted ‘Not in the face!’ and fainted behind a barrel.”

“Pigeon—”

“The book doesn’t lie,” Pigeon wrapped his knuckles on the notebook. “Journalistic integrity.”

The kids were loving it. One began sketching Duck dramatically falling into a mud pit.

Duck was wilting.

Finally, grasping for dignity, he stood. “Alright. If you want a story,” he said, voice low and dramatic, “how about one that’s true. One that’s so real, it’s been banned in three provinces…”

Stool Pigeon raised an eyebrow.

“The Tale… of the Quivering Quillbeast.”

A hush fell over the camp.

“The Quillbeast,” Duck intoned, pacing slowly, “is a creature born from forgotten pages… and mocked names. Its quills are made from the bones of the insulted. It slithers on silent claws and whispers… your nickname… right before it strikes.”

The fire crackled. The shadows danced.

“And if you laugh at someone’s name—say… a brave warrior named ‘Sitting Duck’—then at night, you’ll hear it scratching just outside your tent…”

The fire popped.

An owl hooted in the distance.

A marshmallow fell off a stick with a plop.

One of the children screamed. Another curled into a ball. All twelve promptly bolted for Duck’s tent like it was the last bastion of hope in a void-ridden apocalypse.

Duck turned triumphantly toward Pigeon—just in time to step backward, catch his heel on a tent peg, and crash into the canvas with all the grace of a wounded goobbue.

The tent collapsed with a fwump.

Inside: chaos.

Limbs tangled. Blankets flew. Someone cried. Another trembling voice announced they had definitely heard whispering.

Duck groaned beneath the pile of panicked children.

“…I can’t feel my foot,” he said into the fabric.

Outside, Stool Pigeon roasted another marshmallow, notebook resting on his knees.

“And thus ends ‘The Night of the Duck Collapse,’” he declared, flipping to a fresh page.

By the time Kyre returned, the camp was quiet—mostly because everyone had fallen asleep in a Duck-shaped pile.

She raised an eyebrow, surveying the carnage. Duck gave her a thumbs-up from under a sleeping child and half a tent flap.

Kyre took one look, shrugged, and muttered, “Eh. Close enough.”

She dropped a wrapped sandwich onto a log and disappeared into the woods again.

The next episode: "The Duty Finder Debacle".

[sittingduck-ffxiv]

The snow bit through Duck’s armor like judgment.

Coerthas was not known for mercy—especially not to Miqo’te warriors in dented plate and makeshift earmuffs fashioned from old gauntlet liners.

Sitting Duck trudged up the narrow cliffside trail, boots crunching in packed frost, his breath forming small clouds of self-doubt. In his gloved hand, he clutched a simple offering: a weathered feather charm tied to a toy sword. He hadn’t touched it in years.

The path curved sharply, leading to a plateau overlooking the chasm where Soaring Eagle—their town’s favorite myth, his family’s favorite heartbreak—had made his final, heroic, questionably survivable stand.

Duck stopped at the edge, wind tousling his already rebellious auburn hair. He held the tribute close and whispered, “Hey… I made it.”

The silence that followed was dignified.

“Soooo… are we doing the full tragic cliff monologue or just the first act?” a familiar, reverence shattering voice, called out.

Duck didn’t flinch. He just closed his eyes and sighed.

From behind a nearby snowdrift, Stool Pigeon popped up like a perky, furred meerkat in way too many scarves.

His notebook was already open.

“I told Mom I was going to spy on the Ishgardian nobility, but this is way juicier,” he said, tail flicking with delight.

“You followed me again?”

“Nooo. I anticipated you. It’s different.”

Duck groaned and turned away. His brother followed like a gossipy shadow.

They reached the summit just as the clouds parted, revealing the wind-battered cliff where Soaring Eagle had, according to legend, faced a Garlean warmachina, saved a caravan, and disappeared into glory.

It was hard to say what had actually happened.

Eagle had always been larger-than-life—equal parts myth and memory, wrapped in a windswept mane of black hair and eternal poise. Duck had never stopped trying to catch up to him.

And now he was here. At the place where his brother became a legend.

It would’ve been profound—if a man wearing what looked like a coat made of hawk feathers hadn’t stumbled out from behind a rock.

“Whoa!” Duck stepped in front of Pigeon instinctively. “Who—?”

“I saw him,” the man interrupted, wild-eyed and frostbitten. “Tall. Gleaming. Fell like a comet and then—whoosh!—a hawk caught him!”

“…A hawk?” Duck blinked.

“A hawk,” the man confirmed, deadly serious. “Silver wings. Big as a house. Wingspan of prophecy. Took him up. Ascended.”

Pigeon furiously scribbled: Unconfirmed avian hero extraction. Possible metaphor?

Duck’s heart did that annoying flutter it always did when hope tried to sneak back in.

“Did you see where they went?”

“Up,” the man said, pointing vaguely at the sky as he wandered off. “Very up.”

Back at the cliff’s edge, Duck stood tall, the feather charm tied to his wrist.

“If he flew,” he murmured, “maybe I should, too.”

Pigeon’s eyes widened. “Wait. Are you saying you want to—”

“Fly,” Duck said solemnly.

“Duck. No. This is not a metaphor you can survive!”

“I have to try.”

“No, you don’t! You’re literally a tank! You’re not aerodynamic, you’re… you’re the opposite of dynamic!”

Duck took a step back. The wind howled. His armor gleamed.

“Wait, I haven't had time to write anything funny—!”

And then Duck leapt.

The silence that followed was broken only by the distant crunch of splintered wood and the offended bleat of sheep.

Duck blinked up at the sky. He was lying in the ruins of a hay cart halfway down the mountain. Around him, several sheep looked absolutely done with today.

One of them sneezed a sticky, wet, smelly glob of gross on him.

Pigeon scrambled down the slope, panting from laughter.

“You hit every branch! And the cart! And then the sheep!”

“I meant to land heroically,” Duck mumbled, hay in his mouth.

“Sure. Very symbolic. You symbolized a falling rock.”

A sheep stood over Duck, noisily gnashing on a mouthful of hay.

Later, they sat beside a fire made from splintered cart wood and stubborn dignity.

Duck nursed a bruised everything. Pigeon passed him some bread and a flask of warm cider.

“So…” Pigeon said, after a long pause, “do you really think he flew?”

Duck stared into the fire. “I don’t know.”

Pigeon didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, tail curling around his boots.

“Still putting it in the memoir.”

Duck groaned. “Just spell my name right this time.”

“No promises.”

They watched the fire crackle.

Somewhere above, in the thinning clouds, a hawk shrieked.

The next episode: "Tales by the Firepit".

[sittingduck-ffxiv]

The midday sun bore down like a second judgment as Sitting Duck wiped the sweat from his brow and stared at the entry form.

“Name?” asked the bored Gladiator Guild scribe, quill poised without looking up.

Duck hesitated. He could already feel the laughter building in the air, like a storm of mockery on the horizon.

“…Sitting Duck,” he muttered.

“Sorry?” The scribe raised an eyebrow.

“Sitting. Duck.” He spelled it out with quiet dread.

A scratchy silence followed as the scribe’s quill paused, quivered, and resumed with a half-smothered snort.

Great. This was already going well.

The Bloodsands Coliseum of Ul’dah bustled with dust, noise, and bloodlust. Chants echoed from the stands like war drums. Vendors shouted deals for skewers, fried buns, and “guaranteed win potions” (which turned out to be fruit punch). Gladiators roared and flexed. Posters of today’s roster fluttered in the dry breeze.

Duck stared at his name in bold, blocky print:

SITTING DUCK

Underneath someone had scrawled “aka: Goosebait.”

From behind him came a high-pitched, gleeful gasp.

“By the Twelve! That’s your real name?!”

Stool Pigeon bounced into view, tail flicking excitedly behind him. The megaphone he’d swiped from a distracted vendor was now slung proudly over his shoulder.

“It’s not a stage name?” he pressed, wide eyes glittering with impish delight. “You’re going to get slaughtered.”

“I’m not going to get slaughtered,” Duck grumbled. “I’ve trained for this.”

“You trip over your own axe when no one’s looking!”

Duck’s ears twitched. Somewhere, his mother was probably watching through binoculars and ready to shake the arena with her bellowing cheers.

The first fight was over in seconds. Not Duck’s, thankfully.

He watched from the prep area as a Hyur gladiator flipped a Lalafell into the air like a coin and caught him on his shield before launching him across the arena like a spoiled popoto.

The crowd roared. Duck swallowed hard.

“Next bout!” called the announcer. “We have... uh... Sooting Dork?”

A pause.

“No wait, that says 'Sitting Duck'!” the announcer laughed. “Hahaha! Poor lad.”

A wave of laughter surged through the coliseum.

Duck stepped out into the arena, face burning, armor creaking with every heavy step. His ears flicked back as his name echoed like a bad punchline.

Opposite him stood a smirking Midlander with dual daggers and too much confidence.

“Hope you don’t take this personally, Duckie,” the man called. “I just really hate poultry.”

The fight began with a clang of the gate and a blur of motion. Duck raised his axe, but the footwork wasn’t in his favor—sand underfoot made every pivot feel like walking on marbles.

The dagger-wielder darted in. Duck swung wide and missed.

From the stands, a shrill voice cut through the crowd.

“He missed by a malm! I’ve seen drunk chocobos with better aim!”

Heads turned. A young Miqo’te boy had climbed the announcer’s perch.

Stool Pigeon, armed with a megaphone and zero restraint, was now providing live commentary.

“And here we have Sitting Duck, the pride of literally no one, bravely flailing at shadows!”

The crowd erupted in laughter. The dagger-wielder paused mid-swipe, startled by the sudden jubilation. It was just enough time for Duck to find his footing, and his victory.

“What—?” he said, right before the flat of Duck’s axe knocked him flat.

By the third fight, Duck had bruises on his bruises and still no idea how he was winning.

He chalked it up to raw determination. Or possibly fear. Or divine sympathy.

Stool Pigeon was now officially part of the entertainment. Vendors offered popcorn in “Duck Buckets.” A bookie was taking side bets on whether Duck would trip, drop his weapon, or faint.

Then came the final round.

His opponent? A mountain of a Roegadyn clad in spiked armor and sneering disdain.

“This ends fast,” the Roegadyn growled.

Duck squared up, every muscle aching.

The crowd held its breath.

Then, as Duck charged forward—he stepped on something.

It was a half-eaten sandwich. Possibly cheese. Definitely cursed.

His foot slipped. The world tilted.

He fell—not forward, but airborne—crashing down on the Roegadyn with all the grace of a collapsing stable.

CRUNCH.

And then—silence.

The Roegadyn groaned and went limp.

Duck blinked, face in the dirt.

“Did… I win?”

Later, in the shade of the winner’s podium, Duck nursed an ice pack as he held his trophy.

Stool Pigeon was being interviewed by a local journalist.

“And how did you discover your gift for commentary?” the woman asked, pen scribbling.

“Oh, it’s easy,” he said brightly. “You just say whatever embarrassing thing comes to mind and assume your brother can’t catch you from that far away.”

Duck raised the ice pack. “You’re lucky I’m concussed.”

Their father, Bird Brain, appeared behind them like a sage owl. “Victory is not a direction. It is a consequence of mass.”

“What?” Duck asked.

“He means you crushed him,” Stool Pigeon helpfully translated.

Paira Hooters, their mother and a storm of matronly chaos, barreled in from the crowd, eyes wild.

“MY BABY!” she bellowed, lifting Duck in a spine-cracking hug. “YOU WON! YOU FELL HIM LIKE A GOD-SMACKED METEOR!”

Duck wheezed something unintelligible.

The crowd roared again, chanting his name. Or some version of it.

“Soggy Duck! Soggy Duck!”

He gave a weak thumbs-up.

Dignity? Gone.

But hey—he got the win.

The next episode: "Soaring Memories".

[sittingduck-ffxiv]

The sun was barely cresting the boughs of Gridania’s tall oaks when Sitting Duck stood proudly before the hand-painted sign that read:

“HATCHING-TIDE HERO WANTED! Retrieve the Golden Egg of the Wood — Fame! Fortune! Festive Fun!”

The colors were cheery. The lettering was cheery. The two Lalafell organizers handing out flyers were unbearably cheery.

Duck’s face was not cheery.

He stood with arms crossed over his broad chest — a pose meant to broadcast stoic confidence — but the effect was undercut by several things. One, his massive greataxe was strapped haphazardly across his back, dented and chipped from overuse. Two, his armor was a battered patchwork of questionable repairs and clashing hues. And three, across his body hung the cheeriest betrayal of all, a sash reading:

“SITTING DUCK”

In glitter. Pink glitter.

Somewhere above him in the trees, a soft snicker rang out.

He didn’t need to look. He knew who it was.

“Stool Pigeon,” he growled, his thick tail giving an involuntary twitch, the fur along its striped length bristling.

From the branches overhead, a lean, wiry Miqo'te teen with sandy beige fur and slicked-up hair poked his wide-eyed face through the leaves, a notebook balanced expertly on his knees.

“I’m just documenting history,” said Stool Pigeon, eyes glinting with mischief. “This is the day you rise above your ridiculous name and become a true hero!”

Duck raised a brow beneath his tousled auburn bangs. “Really?”

“No. This is the day you get chased through Gridania by a chocobo again and I have exclusive commentary rights.”

Duck groaned, the perpetual blush on his cheeks deepening.

The search for the egg began well enough.

He followed pastel-ribboned riddles pinned to trees, hopped across stepping stones shaped like cracked eggshells, and narrowly avoided a basket-wielding Moogle shouting, “No touching unless you cluck!”

Despite the festive nonsense, Duck pressed on with the stubborn resolve of someone desperate to be taken seriously. His bright gold eyes darted warily through the trees as he advanced deeper into the Shroud, his heavy footfalls softened only slightly by the matted moss below.

Then, in the thick of the wood, he saw it.

The egg.

Resting alone in a nest of shimmerleaf and pastel blossoms, it glowed with a golden sheen. A single symbol — a soaring bird — was etched into its shell in shimmering pearl.

Duck’s heart pounded. This is it. The hero’s egg.

He reached out slowly, reverently, and lifted it from the nest.

That’s when the trees behind him shuddered.

Grunted.

Snorted?

And then came the shrillest, most vengeful "KWEHHHHH!!!" he’d ever heard.

He turned.

It was massive.

The chocobo loomed like a feathery siege weapon — the size of a wagon, its plumage bristling like spears, talons carving divots into the earth, murder gleaming in its beady black eyes.

“I… think this one’s not part of the event,” Duck whispered.

The chocobo lowered its head.

Duck ran.

Up in the safety of the trees, Stool Pigeon flipped the page in his notebook and began dictating, his voice theatrical and far too delighted:

“Chapter Three: The Pursuit of Fowl Justice. Our hero, valor shining in his sweat-soaked brow, flees from a beast whose rage knows no seasonal boundary.”

Below, Duck barreled through a garland-wrapped bush, trailing eggshell confetti, frosting, and one extremely determined bird.

They crashed through an egg-painting booth (startling a pair of elderly Elezen artists), trampled a tower of chocolate bunnies, and burst through the middle of a Mummer’s play about The Great Egg Rebellion, sending painted actors screaming in all directions.

“Sorry!” Duck called over his shoulder. “Official event business!”

“KWEHHH!!” screamed the chocobo, still in hot pursuit.

Stool Pigeon cackled somewhere in the branches, scribbling furiously.

Eventually, Duck reached a small pond and skidded to a halt, panting.

The egg — now mud-streaked and crusted in frosting — glinted faintly in the light. He turned to face the monstrous chocobo, trying to straighten his posture and puff out his chest like his long-lost brother, Soaring Eagle, might have done.

“Alright. I’m giving it back. No hard feelings, right?”

He gently set the egg down on a flat rock.

The chocobo waddled forward, considered it for a long moment — and then ate it.

Duck blinked. “Uh…”

The chocobo pecked his shin with vengeance, yanked off his boot, and flung him headfirst into a nearby honey barrel.

Back at the festival square, Duck stood dripping with honey, half a chocolate bunny stuck to one ear, and no boots. The pink glitter on his sash was somehow more noticeable now.

Children gathered around him cheering.

“Amazing!” shouted one. “You were the best part of the whole show!”

“What show?” Duck muttered, dazed, his auburn bangs plastered to his forehead.

A Lalafell organizer approached and handed him a ribbon — sticky, sparkly, and cruelly cheerful.

“Participation Prize: Most Memorable Exit”

From a nearby bench, Stool Pigeon — now proudly wearing Duck’s other boot like a trophy — gave him a thumbs-up.

“So... breakfast?”

Duck sighed, voice low and bashful. “Only if the eggs aren’t golden.”

The next episode: "Name Shame".