#Moogle Go Round

[neriyon]

Con loooooot~ Hyth charm + paissa / fat cat / scree stickers by qpeura (twitter link) and moogle stickers, sad Urianger + owo G'raha pins by kuikune (tumblr link, bc I don't want to ping ^^'')

Also in separate pic since I only realized I forgor them after taking the first pic: Rei, Mika and sacabambaspis pins by Reshi (instagram link)

Con done, now train ride home, some food and then I can go do more msq~ Not much con loot this time, just a few stickers, pins and couple of drinks.

All in all nice con! Covention center was veeery spacious and for the first time people stopping to greet friends didn't block like entire corridor or something. Also relatively cool temps, I was only dying of heat when I had my (plastic) mask on.

AMV contest was with weird rules (limited songs to choose so there were soooo many with the same finnish meme song) and in way too small room, and handfan workshop had literal hours of queues, but those are pretty much only thing I can complaim about. 4/5, would go again (and probably will, next year)

[best-kh-rarepair-tournament]

Hello everyone, and welcome to the Kingdom Hearts's Biggest Loser Bracket!

Last time I brought you the KH Sexyman Bracket, which Aqua won, and this seemed to be the bracket you guys were most interested in doing!

How it's going to work

A poll lasts for one day except for the finals, the bracket is split into 4 parts

Rounds are shown under the cut :D

Round 1

Part A

Clayon v Ira

Demyx’s Sitar v Namine

Mickey v Nept

Hayner v Aegis

White Mushrooms v Sigrun

Subject X v Brain

Axel v Pete

Honest John and Gideon v Ansem SOD

Ephemer v Fuu

Struggle Tournament Organizer v Ansem The Wise

Part B

Master of Masters v Riku

Jafar v Xemnas

Marluxia v Xion

Donald v UX Player

Magic Mirror v Xigbar

Remus v Urd

KH Players v Joshua

Oswald v Lexaeus

Ventus v Larxene

Travis v Shadow Heartless

Part C

Magia v Strelitzia

ML Player v Ava

Roxas v Captain Hook

BBS Jungle Book v Vidar

Missing Link v Vali

Saix v Heimdall

Hoder v Yozora

Hades v Odin

Vivi v Sora

Iago v Demyx

Part D

Cloud v Phil’s No-Show Trainee

Sora’s Mom v Zack

Skuld v Helgi

Goofy v Gula

Vor v Terra

Fred v Bragi

Vala v Aced

Invi v Nameless Star

Setzer v Pence

Zexion v Organization 13 Moogle

Part E

Maleficent v Ursula

Seifer v Eraqus

Baldr v Aqua

Hermod v Olette

Repliku v Xehanort

Xaldin v Freya

Luxu v Kairi

Vanitas v Rai

Vexen v Luxord

Sora’s Dad v Kingdom Hearts

[nshi-ao3]

For a happier question to balance things out, what's Joker's favorite Allied Society and what's his favorite new food he wouldn't have tried without being isekai'd?

Also I'm imagining him flooded with complicated emotions if he ever helps out directly at the last dregs.

Pixies!! Joker vibes with fellow chaos gremlins. :) Inventing stuff together with them for their little dream land is very fun. Especially since his pact with Feo Ul keeps him from all the usual very bad Fae nonsense that would normally make casually stepping in and out of Lyhe Mheg a very bad idea for the vast majority of mortals. Being the Vath Deftarm's adventuring mentor is also fun... Little taste of Dawntrial before Dawntrail? :P The Arkasodara one will offer him plenty of opportunities to try new food! And that one Dwarf that teaches the WoL how to mix drinks will also be fun haha. Rounding up the Moogles to do work, though... now that's hard. Even for their king.... Food! I don't imagine Joker would've ever imagined he'd eat Jerked Jhammel before... It's a pretty good on-the-go snack! V'kebbe in the Rogue quests introduced him to the wonders of the Bismarck's (the restaurant not the primal lol) Finger Sandwiches! I think he'd be grateful to learn about lassis being a surprisingly good cure for aethersickness. :P And then there's that archestratus juice drink they make for familiars in that one Elpis sidequest. Good shit, good shit... Very rejuvenating! Did you know alpaca is very tasty actually? I've had it before... But Joker... can you do it, after looking those lovely ones from Dawntrail in the eyes? (Probably) But the Archon Loaf he will never forgive. He hates it passionately.

As for The Last Dregs-- Oh yes! Very mixed feelings there! "Finally... partial ownership of my own cafe... At the end of the universe. Staffed by rabbits and robots. Not how I pictured it, but hey!" Joker having a conversation with customers:

[little-robin-h00d]

Happy Halloween! :D a Halloween Town Ienzo for your viewing pleasure!

I was able to do art for the first time in years recently, and I absolutely WENT OFF! The muses put me in a headlock and didn't let me go until they were satisfied, so this boi got done just in time for Halloween!

The amount of detail i put into this guy is INSANE! But the glazing and light filters messed up the small details that were only really visible anyway at 800% zoom, so i'll be including those under the cut.

Embroidery

Almost every embroidered symbol is unique, only mirrored on the other side of the coat. From top to bottom: the Nobody symbol, the Heartless symbol, a symbol found in the old mansion in Traverse down combining the fleur-de-lis heart and a crown, the symbol of Ansem the Wise, the Kingdom Hearts symbol, a stylized rose, an eight pointed star, the player pin from The World Ends With you and the one from the sequel, a symbol found in Scala ad Caelum, a rounded star, a book, scales of justice, a beaker, Sephiroth's symbol with the wing inside the meteor, Shinra's logo, the buster sword from Final Fantasy 7, a chocobo, a cactuar, a moogle, fleur-de-lis, Red XIII, the Unversed symbol, Nobody symbol, Heartless symbol, Kingdom Hearts symbol, Roxas’ symbol, Eraqus’ symbol, numbers 1-14 in roman numerals.

The general mirroring stops here, and the symbols on the right are: a sun, moon, pentacle, meteor, hidden Mickey/lucky emblem, demon and angel wings on a heartless symbol representing Riku, sea salt ice cream and a thalassa shell for Xion, and Roxas’ symbol and a cut-off Oathkeeper keyblade.

On the inside of the coat’s embroidery are funny easter eggs to fill out the space because I ran out of ideas, from right to left: Sans, Loss.jpg, Amogus, Anarchy symbol, the cool S, the symbol for pi, Bill Cipher, Kirby, Ali from “Welcome to Demon School! Iruma-kun”, Elmo, a rat, a bat, the Palestinian flag and a watermelon (free Palestine!), two band-aids, the Pokémon type symbols for ghost psychic and dark-types, and the Genshin Impact element icons in order as they appear on the loading screen.

The text inside the Lexicon reads…

Page 1:

Once upon a time, a young boy became a prince. However, this story is not a fairytale…

This is a tragedy.

[This is the story of] Radiant Garden, and the [events that led to its] fall. It all began with [a man with amnesia, and a] series of experiments [by the apprentices of Ansem the Wise,] students of the Heart. [The amnesiac man, only remembering his name was Xehanort, was taken in by] Master Ansem.

… it is unclear when … point of no return.

Page 2: Little Ienzo rarely spoke, but [that certainly didn’t mean he] didn’t understand. The edge of the book reads: see every atrocity, hear every rumor, never shut up.

The rest is illegible.

Page 3: … Heartless because Xehanort had… body…

Page 4: Ignis Fatuus: fool’s fire, will-o-wisp. … illusion, delusion.

There is also text on all of the floating pages!

First floating page:

Design (and art) By: Little Robin Hood 1 Halloween Town Ienzo Wizard/Blue Mage + Will-O-Wisp Fanart encouraged, but please credit [the design]! I have lost so much sleep over this boi… Record: 22 hours awake TToTT

Second floating page:

I hereby relinquish my heart to Xehanort. In order to [successfully] achieve the goals of Organization XIII, I shall be given the number VI, and the title of Cloaked Schemer. I shall apprentice under lord Xemnas directly, and pledge loyalty to the Superior of the In-between. I shall don the cloak and a new name, and act as the Superior’s eyes and ears. None shall be above Xemnas, and my loyalty shall be his alone. Until our goals are finally achieved, my name shall be…

X Zexion

Third floating page: an abridged short version of the “Fresh Prince” theme song

Fourth floating page: T’was the Nightmare before Christmas And all through the streets, every monster was preparing for next Halloween! But good ol Jack had another idea - why not invite Sora and friends? And thus, Ienzo let his magic work, now ready for fun and festive fright! What fun forms might his friends take..?

Fifth floating page: dictionary definition of Wizard and its etymology

[sisselkalle]

Some cool things/sources I found on some stuff I dug up on the old FFCCNews site via the Wayback Machine:

A signed art panel for Ring of Fates. These were given out at the "Gladiators in TGS2007" event at the Ring of Fates demo booth. The "Gladiators in TGS2007" event was a 20 minute multiplayer PvP event, who ever came out top in each round was given one of these as a prize.

A low res but clearer picture of the sticker(?) given out at the Ring of Fates demo booth at Tokyo Game Show 2007. I previously made a post about this.

A Crystal Bearers tshirt I've previously posted about. Prior to tonight, I didn't have a source on how one would have obtained this tshirt. Turns out, it was given out to the TGS2009 Crystal Bearers demo booth staff. It's now no wonder why I could only find a singular sold auction for this shirt...

Signed scenario/script booklet(s) for Crystal Bearers. According to the FFCCNews site, these were won as prizes via Square Enix Members.

A scenario/script booklet for Echoes of Time. Unlike the above Crystal Bearers booklet, it was seemingly only meant for the game developers... No information was given about this booklet other than pictures.

...A Pizza Hut collab. Originally I was only aware of the pizza box, but apparently there were other prizes like mobile phone wallpapers and illustration cards. The archived Pizza Hut collab site is broken as hell (images don't function at all), so this is really the only image I have of the collab (taken from FFCCNews)

A Ring of Fates themed hand fan. Given out at the "Everyone can Play! Midsummer FFCC Caravan" event held at Yodobashi Camera in Tokyo & Sofmap Giga in Kobe

A scenario/script booklet for Ring of Fates. Similar to the Echoes of Time booklet, it seems to have been meant for the developers only... No information was given about this booklet other than pictures.

A Moogle mug from the "Everyone's Kingdom" survey campaign for My Life as a King. Only 100 of these were made and winners were randomly chosen.

And some Crystal Bearers chibi papercrafts. If/when I have time and energy, I might go and manually recreate Extra High Quality™ versions of these, I know for certain my sister would enjoy a mini Amidatelion (I still haven't played Crystal Bearers)

[shieldkeeper]

Writing Prompt: Steer Word Count: 765 ---> masterlist

Ahhh… blue seas, clear skies, and boundless possibilities!

Or so it should have been.

Garen’s crew had set off from Old Sharlayan once all crew was accounted for. Everyone had their own place, their own duty, and their hull full of supplies for the journey that would take a few days to cross the ocean proper. They were as ready as they’d ever be to make for the New World of Tural.

Joining him was Emrys, Totsuka, Kojin, Luin, Mogcan, Olyxio, Seiseito, and most of all his Da, Yavin. Each associating and serving as ambassador for a specific society tribe to foster friendly relations amongst their people. Tural was but another place on the docket to complete that mission, though it was also for the fact of… adventure! A land full of mystery and intrigue compared to those of Eorzea and Othard. Tale was that Tural was home to many communities and tribes that had managed to make friends with their neighbors and live amicably.

Something that intrigued Garen most in his desire to bridge that same gap back home.

Though that was neither here nor there given their… current situation.

Halfway into their journey across the western seas did they encounter a storm unlike other. Yavin had been the first to sniff it out before it so much as came into view and warned Garen that they were in for a rough one. Trusting in his Da’s knowledge and experience with the seas, as captain of his crew he called for all hands on deck. To prepare for the worst as he would steer the boat on course—for the clouds they approached spread far over their path.

Indeed, the waves grew choppy and seized round them as they entered the fray. The unexperienced of the crew holding on for dear life to their appointed spot as the vessel swayed unnaturally beneath their feet. Rain poured heavily and lightning struck hazardly all around them. One wrong move and they might very well go overboard. Worse yet if their ship ended up struck and sunken!

Through it all, Garen managed to carry them through the storm. His Da barking orders to the others much like he had in his heyday as a captain himself. Where some struggled, Yavin was right there telling them what to do. Any who appeared to have no clue what they were doing, he sent down into the ship to instead fortify their belongings and nothing of import broke—though it was mostly to get the useless hands out of the way so he himself could take over.

It was an all-out effort to be certain… and there were times Garen wondered if he might have lost a crew member amidst the struggle…

But ultimately they had escaped rather unscathed! 

Well, except for the majority who were sick as a dog from being tossed and turned all over the place.

Once they were free of the storm’s clutches completely and able to assess damages, Yavin took over the helm as Garen checked in on each member. Mogcan and Olyxio having been the most useless of the lot (and at times, made things worse) had remained below deck for the majority. Out of fear of the situation, they had unglamoured back into their original forms and were found huddled together beneath a blanket as sylph and moogle refused to come out. Not until they knew all was well again. It was Emrys who truly kept everything safe and restrained below decks in the grand scheme of things.

Kojin and Seiseito had held their own above decks just fine. Luin and Totsuka struggled but ultimately were able to assist in a meaningful way with Yavin’s direction—though they may have been a bit too sick for words after being tossed about so roughly. Garen thanked them all regardless for keeping their cool and relieved them of their duties to get some rest.

Through the rest of the journey, Yavin and Garen took turns manning the wheel and watching for any further rough waters that might take them for a turn. Though it had been a rough one, it had been the only thing standing in their way of Tural.

For the closer they got, the clearer the waters became. Seabirds ringing in their arrival as Tuliyollal came into sight. Their destination just beyond the coral reef.

At long last, the New World lay right before their very eyes. A new place to call home as they settled in for their next grand adventure. And a step closer to Garen achieving what he so wished back home.

[this-is-krikkit]

Hi Kit 💙 May I ask numbers 1, 7 and 46 from the 50 Questions Just Because? :]

Eli the lion, of course you may! ♥️♥️

1. what are three shows in your watchlist that you’ve been meaning to get to?

oh this is an interesting one! well, i've been told by... 5 different people i think by now, that i should get into fullmetal alchemist, so it's been on my watchlist for a few months now (i just don't like the idea of entering a story that has two different canons so idk how i'll deal with that). i have to catch up with severance now that the long awaited season 2 is finally here, obviously. and third, i have yet to round up my downton abbey watch and watch the two movies!

7. what color dominates your closet?

i'm going to be boring af and give you the answer most people probably give: black. a close second would be dark green tho, and third would be "multicolored mess" as that describes a whole bunch of my clothes as well. it's a spectrum, and i've decided i'm all over it, okay??

46. what’s the last thing a friend recommended to you that you looked into and actually liked?

oh this was over a year ago now, but i'm gonna go with yuri on ice (and "actually liked" is the understatement you know it is when it comes to me and how much i love that anime, amirite), which @dont-f-with-moogles recommended for a few months before i gave it a try and never regretted lmao

want to send me some asks just because?

[soprawrites]

Aerith Week 2025 Day 2: Aerith as Your Favorite FF Mascot/Summon

CW: sfw, no pairings

WC: 997

Notes: I wanted to write something for @aerith-week, even if it was just a little something! Decided to go with the alternate prompt for day 2 to see our lovely flower girl as a cute moogle!

It was a pleasant afternoon in Costa Del Sol; the sun was shining high in the sky casting warm rays of light on the earth. A comforting and warm breeze passed through the coastal town as people casually walked about, some dressed and heading for the beach while others browsed the various stalls and shops lining the streets.

Aerith was one of those individuals, having found herself alone for the time being. The others in the group had all gone about their separate ways at some point; Cloud and Barrett went off to restock on supplies, while Cid stayed by the Tiny Bronco to check the aircraft for any maintenance that was probably needed. Yuffie had gone off to scout for hidden materia that might be nearby and had dragged Nanaki and Cait Sith with her. Tifa had stayed back at the inn to sort through her gear and had told Aerith to go on ahead and that she would catch up with her later. As for Vincent, well, Aerith honestly had no clue where the quiet man had gone off to.

So here she was, wandering the streets of Costa Del Sol alone, eyeing stalls as she passed them by, unsure how she should spend her free time.

Just as she was about to head down to the beach to see if anything interesting was happening there, a voice called out to her.

“Excuse me, miss!”

Turning toward the direction the voice came from, Aerith spotted a young girl who looked to be of similar age to Yuffie. She was dressed in a fluffy yellow feathery dress that was quite reminiscent of a chocobo.

“You look like you’re free, mind helping me out with something?”

Tilting her head in curiosity, Aerith replies, “Sure! What do you need help with?”

“You see, It’s been my long-time dream to design an outfit on my own. I’m interning with Fran, Naomi, and Yorda, and they told me I could design something casual by myself this time. I’ve already got the design for the outfit, but no one to model it! That’s where you come in, miss. You’re the perfect fit for what I have in mind!” The girl finished explaining, jumping excitedly.

Aerith giggles at the way the girl talks animatedly. She reminds her of some of the kids back at the Leaf House in the Sector 5 slums. Her heart tightens slightly at the thought of home and the steel sky that she misses, but she tries her best to push it away. She’s gotta help this girl fulfill her dreams after all!

“That sounds exciting! What design do you have in mind?”

“Oh, you’ll see. I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I think I did a great job! Come on this way and I’ll get you fitted!” The girl takes hold of Aerith’s hand, ready to start dressing her up.

“Ooh, well now I can’t wait. Let’s go!” Aerith giggles again, pumpkin her hand high into the air as the girl whisks her off to a fitting room that’s nearby, all the while chatting about the outfit and design.

In the back of her mind, Aerith hopes that Tifa will be able to find her whenever she comes looking for her.

When Tifa finally made her way out of the inn, ready to relax and enjoy the rest of the day with Aerith, she wasn’t expecting to find her like this. 

The dark-haired girl had rounded the corner and found a small table set up in front of a fitting room, all sorts of colorful cloth in various sizes lining the table. It wasn’t that, however, that caught her attention. It was the sight of Aerith dressed not in her usual pink dress and red blazer. She wasn’t dressed in her usual swimwear either.

Twirling in front of the table, Aerith was dressed in a fuzzy white scoop dress that went down to her knees with her hair out of its usual braid. A white headband sits on her head with a small pink sphere sticking out of it. Tifa notices that the light brunette's nose was painted a light shade of pink as well.

As Aerith turns, Tifa spots a pair of small purple wings fluttering behind her. It’s with that, that Tifa finally realizes that her friend is dressed up as a moogle.

“Oh, Tifa!” Aerith exclaims, only just spotting her at that moment, happy to see her. “You made it!” She excitedly comes up to Tifa, the sound of her white healed sandals clicking as she grabs the red-eyed girls hands.

“Yeah…” Tifa trails off, slightly lost for words. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, right! I’m helping Fiona here model her design! It’s supposed to be casual beachwear, but, umm…” She trails off, whispering the last part quietly while scratching her cheek and smiling sheepishly. 

“Anyway! What do you think?” Aerith takes a step back, showing the outfit more clearly to Tifa with another twirl.

“It’s cute.” Tifa chuckles.

“Right!?” Fiona, the young fashion designer, interjects. “You’re right though, it doesn’t fit the beach…” Fiona says quietly, tapping a finger to her lips in thought. “Well, back to the drawing board!” She shrugs. “Thanks again, Miss Aerith! Feel free to keep the outfit.” And with that, Fiona runs off to her table, scribbling away at a sketchbook.

Aerith exchanges a look with Tifa before the two of them break out into laughter. 

“I never thought I’d see you dressed as a moogle,” Tifa notes as the two of them walk away, heading toward a small cafe. They had decided to stop somewhere to grab a small bite to eat.

“Neither did I! But…” Aerith stops in front of Tifa, bending at the waist slightly, her soft hair falling over her shoulder while bringing her pointer to the corner of her curled-up lips. “I make a cute one, kupo!”

Tifa chuckles into her hand at Aerith’s antics. “Right.”

[eirikrjs]

Fuck you been up to lately, Eirikr? How's your health progressing? Any games you've played or series/movies you've watched lately?

Yo!

I've been doing well, thanks for asking!

My medicaid reset after the new year, which means it's covering my therapy again after a 2 month lapse. Americaaaaaaaa

Here's what I've been consuming with my time:

GAMES:

First game I bought for my PS5 Pro. It's been very playable with only one hand, though getting the platinum is going to be out of reach until I can use both hands again. I've loved it, especially the combat, though the mandatory minigames during the main story were irksome. Yes, the original had mandatory minigames too but this game goes too far with their density, especially during Costa Del Sol, which I felt was the game's nadir.

Progress: Post game has been more enjoyable than the main game. Open world suits the combat engine. I've completed every region's data for Chadley. This includes the moogle wrangling. One-handed. Very irritating but I'm proud I could accomplish that.

A sale enticed me, plus I haven't played X in over 20 years. I may not even play X-2, it was the game that broke my unwavering faith in Square(soft) and ultimately led me to try out other JRPG publishers, eventually Atlus with Nocturne (it and X-2 were released in the US within a year of each other).

Progress: Just beat Seymour at Mt. Gagazet. I forgot that this game has some real teeth during certain bossfights. I suppose I'll be setting myself up to once again completely remake Sphere grids and min-max characters like I did circa 2002. I thought I would be annoyed by the game's pacing and the inability to skip cutscenes but the story is still good and I don't think I would have wanted to skip them anyway. I had forgotten so much, especially about Dream Zanarkand.

I haven't been enjoying this one as much as I'd hoped. Part of it I think is being spoiled by the FF Pixel Remasters' boost options to eliminate grinding. DQ3, on the other hand quickly became relentless, so, in lieu of grinding I didn't want to do, I lowered the difficulty to the "Dracky Quest" Easy mode. And it's been strange, since its major conceit is that it won't allow you to die. Any mortal blow still leaves a character with 1 HP; this includes the monster arena, which is the kinda cheese I do enjoy since you get great reward for winning those. Now, I would have preferred some kind of attack/HP rebalancing instead of perma-endure so I felt my equipment/party choices still mattered for something.

Progress: Reached Zoma's castle so I'll probably beat it tomorrow. I've still been having lots of fun rounding up monsters and exploring, so it hasn't been a total wash. For being a Famicom game originally, the scope is pretty staggering. Still, I'm an FF guy at heart.

SHOWS:

An absolute delight from start to finish and probably the best Star Wars production of the Disney era after Andor. I'm legit sad it's over with no Season 2 in sight.

Castlevania: Nocturne season 2

After feeling a bit whelmed by the first season, other than the surprising inclusion of Juste, I felt this one was an overall improvement and an interesting adaptation of series elements without being bogged down by them. Plus it embraces Castlevania's SMT-like side. Fingers crossed for more with this same creative team; they seem to have planted some seeds for a potential future Soma story within this season.

YouTube

I watch a lot of Dan McClellan, a Bible scholar and his companion Data over Dogma podcast.

[tsupertsundere]

FFXIVWRITES 2024 - DAY 5 - STAMP Complete ---- 1,777 words ---- Notes: The instant I saw the prompt I knew I could do nothing but this.

“The Postmoogle’s PostPals Initiative’s aim is to unite young people across the world through the act of writing letters to each other!” Angeline Carax declared, pride shining in her voice. “Yes…” came the more uncertain reply, from one G’raha the Tia. “With the help and organization of the Postmoogles, letter exchanges between pals can reach across not only continents, but even onto other shards!” “You’ve said….” “We’ll provide all the materials, writing implements, composition books - the pilot program connecting Idyllshire and Ishgard has gone SO well we’re ready to proceed with expanding all across Hydaelyn.” “You know I couldn’t be happier to hear that,” G’raha said, his delivery less than convincing, “but… my love, I have to ask. Why am I going to be the one on the stamp?”

If his voice held somewhat more of a plaintive cry than usual, it was because he found himself up on a small raised platform in Tataru’s atelier in rather different clothes than usual for a rather different purpose. “Not just stamps,” Tataru said from her perch at her table. Her hands hadn’t stopped for the past hour they had been in here, shuffling papers and clacking around on an abacus and, from time to time, juggling a handful of lalafell-palm-sized balls with an intense frown on her face before putting them down at once and attacking something else. “There’s mailers, posters, some initiative flyers, ideally we can pass them around - “ Angeline rounded on Tataru, waving her hands to try to get her to stop, but G’raha’s tail was already going, whipping back and forth intermittently, though his placating smile grew only a touch more forced. Tataru studiously kept her head down and hummed cheerfully to herself beneath Angeline’s glare.

Angeline stepped up onto the viewing platform and took G’raha’s hands in both of hers, even as he kept talking under his voice, just to her, “Don’t get me wrong, I was so happy you asked, I just - well I certainly can’t be the right person for the job. My days of being any kind of - of figurehead, visual or otherwise, are long behind me - “

Angeline rocked forward on the balls of her feet and dropped a kiss on the corner of his mouth - he stopped short, which was the point. His eyes widened, flicked to Tataru (not paying attention), then closed when they met again for a slower kiss. “Everyone is going to be wondering why it isn’t you,” G’raha murmured when they parted, just barely. “I’m wondering why it isn’t you. It’s your project!” “It is my project. Why would I want to stare at myself over and over again?” Angeline replied, stepping forward to slide her hands along his flank, to settle them on his hips. “I’m setting this up exactly how I want it. Is that bad?” A crimson cast had settled onto his face, making him enter into competition with his hair. He shook his head quickly and flushed even harder when she smiled at him, full sun. Angeline reached up to readjust the navy cap he wore, sending the brilliant pink glowing moogle heart bouncing above his head. “Then I have a Postmoogle General to capture,” she said, and tugged him forward in her wake, again and for always.

🎐🎐🎐

The bridge that she had picked - one of the many that crisscrossed and linked the rocks, shoals and docks that made up Limsa Lominsa - reflected the sun white hot off the stone, and the sky was crisp and blue, lightly clouded. G’raha Tia was doing his best School Picture Day imitation, his arms held awkwardly akimbo at his sides, stock in the center of the bridge. “Has the boy forgotten what standing is like?” the hired roegaedyn pictomancer muttered to herself, rubbing the back of her wide neck as the white plain of her canvas radiated to beat the stones.

Angeline clapped her hands and then megaphoned them around her mouth to call to him. “Okay! Now let’s relax….! Great! Give me relaxed!” G’raha shifted in indecision, casting his gaze back and forth as if to catch some kind of inspiration, and then stiffly put his hands on his hips and puffed his chest out. “No - not quite - !” Surprised and chagrined his first attempt didn’t cut it, his hands flitted but never settled on adjusting his cap, plucking at his little necktie, gripping the bright red mailbag at his side. “We’re aiming for relaxed - !” He crossed his arms and wrenched his torso to the side, mimicking Estinien’s coolness in his mind but coming off rather more like in the throes of despair. “Relaxed - “ G’raha stared out to her mournfully, his eyes the saddest and wettest rubies that were nevertheless trying their absolute utmost. Angeline exchanged glances with the pictomancer, who with a sigh sank onto a little folded stool and settled herself in for a long day of hurrying up and waiting. Angeline set her expression into the most double plus sparkling warm supportive one but as she turned to approach her erstwhile stranded star -

The rapid padding of feet gave them a second of warning before a little body barreled into G’raha, hitting him in the small of the back and making him yelp and stumble. There was a crash and a hiss and flutter of heavy packets scattering and loose pages escaping free, and even as G’raha twisted to try to catch the young girl that knocked into him, she was Intent on using him as a springboard to lunge for her spilled belongings, a stream of expletives and complaints and invectives spiraling from without cease. By the time G’raha caught and steadied himself on the bridge’s railing, the floating pages, about seven in all, had long slipped the reach of everything but the girl’s rising wail.

A switch flipped - G’raha lifted his hands, stepped forward, and began to cast, practiced and sure. The smallest expanse contracted and in an instant-length eon, he spread his hands and with certainty the pages were neatly stacked in them, matched by a relieved smile. The girl whipped around from her position wrapped around the opposite rail so fast it sent her short braids smacking directly into her face. She shook her head roughly and when she looked again her furious expression was coated in tears - not of relief, she insisted for the record. Braid got in her eye.

Angeline wrapped her arms around herself as she watched, twisting back and forth to her own rhythm in private personal joy. There he was, that thing that could never go away, not in a hundred years or a million. One that he couldn’t even to the best of his ability hide, stamped in deep on his heart and filled with gold. That thing that she would always long to see… Lurching in from the side of (or perhaps springing from) those sentimental thoughts was a notion that made her unpeel one arm from herself, send her hand vaguely questing for the pictomancer’s shoulder.

G’raha Tia had by this point helped the girl (a shipyard’s solicitor’s assistant, as it turned out) re-gather the rather prodigious amount of bundled paperwork and notes, and to secure them more surely with package twine he handily pulled from his mailbag. It was only until his fussing began to risk demolishing her newfound goodwill did he let her go and watch her run off, wishing her luck softly and sweetly. By this point Angeline’s groping hand had long since found its mark, grabbing the pictomancer’s shoulder and slapping at it lightly but with increasing intensity until she looked up from her tomephone - but at once she caught what Angeline had. Paint hit the canvas the instant the girl trotted by them, shooting them odd looks that grew even odder when she registered what Angeline kept saying, her voice so bright and ringing Limsa’s corridors picked it up and threw it ahead of the girl on her way home - “Tell me you got that! TELL me you got that! Tell me you got that…!!”

🎐🎐🎐

G’raha, if it were up to him, would have been perfectly happy to put the whole scenario out of his mind and just enjoy getting the opportunity to have something definedly low-stakes to do every once in a while (Aymeric had spoken energetically and profusely about how much adding personally scheduled stints as the Azure Elephant helped him). Angeline wasn’t having it.

“If it were something else, maybe, but I want you to see this one.” She scooped her arms under his to hug him to her, back to her chest, then turned him and walked him forward, kicking his legs with hers. He sunk against her and groaned, taking the opportunity to press his face onto the base of her jaw, an enforced blindness suffused with her scent. He didn’t wanna.

“Omg. Calm down,” Angeline teased, coming to a stop and settling in. She caught both his wrists in one hand and settled his hips back onto hers, bundling him tight. She had a hand free to tilt his head back down but he took a deep breath of her in, sighed, and spared her the effort. Then he opened his eyes and took himself in.

The Postmoogle General stood enveloped in whirling letters emerging out of Limsa’s seagulls and clouds, bright sky and cobbles, as sturdy a pillar in the maelstrom as the quintessential Lominsan lamppost that anchored one end of the bridge. His fine navy coat had long beribboned tails to match the bow in his own, his chest crisscrossed with gold straps and medals, and crowned above all with the Postmoogle Bag in ardent red. A girl - the girl - disappears off the edge of the painting, in the flow of and leading the swirl of letters through Limsa and wherever they may be going. Wherever it may be, wherever her words and those of her fellows, they would be watched over and safeguarded, his hand still gently outstretched from having helped send her off.

The star of hope in his eye, that lit his face, that burned in him, warmth and illumination set inside a crystal case - “That’s the Initiative,” Angeline said, resting her cheek on his head and twisting and swaying with him. “That's what I always want to see, anyway.” G’raha was quiet for a long time, long enough for her to twist him a little further on one sway so she could peek at his face. It just sent him burrowing deeper into his scarf, red on red again. “I don’t think I look the best in navy, but it’s a wonderful composition,” was the model’s final comment on the piece.

[owlespresso]

pollen, chapter 6 tags: fem!reader, reader has a personality, mind-fuckery, non-consensual kissing a/n: it's about 8.5k words. thank you all for your patience. read 1-5 HERE.

The thickets of the Eastern Shroud are labyrinthine. Tangles of bramble and clusters of thistle seem to dog your every move as you stumble through the brush. Whatever path you had been following is lost to you now. You’re not sure how long or how far you have wandered.

The thick canopy makes it nearly impossible to tell whether it is day or not. You have to squint to catch a few thin, silvery beams of moonlight, and they don’t even reach the forest floor. Instead, the ground is illuminated by large bulbous flowers and mushrooms which sport an unearthly glow. Some of them even seem to breathe, exhaling clouds of spores which you’re careful to keep your distance from.

The noises of the forest are suddenly cut through by a round of loud, whooping cheers. You rush towards the sound, past bundles of giant flowers, under and over stray branches and thick vines. Your heart thrums in your ears as you break through the treeline, stepping foot into a wide open clearing.

What first draws your attention is the long table, nearly large enough to touch both sides. It's draped in white, pearlescent cloth. Plentiful platters stacked sumptuously with scrumptious seeming snacks line the surface from end to end. Puffy pastries are unceremoniously snatched by Sylphs and Moogles. It’s a massive gathering of them, more than you have ever seen at once. Yet, most seem to pay you no mind, even as you gawp openly. They’re more interested in each other, their chatter already rising to a dull roar. They pour tea into mismatched cups and down olive-colored bottles of swill, lost to their own revelry.

You can’t entirely recall your reason for being here, but you are almost certain it has nothing to do with this mysterious trouvaille. 

Just as you turn to exit, however, a soft voice calls out from close by.

“Wait!” A Sylph of pinkish hue floats frantically towards you, looking awfully haggard. The disheartened slump of their posture makes them look like a puppet on limp strings. “Don’t go! This one cannot remember the last time we entertained a human guest!” They plead. “This one’s name is Lixio—delighted to make your acquaintance!

You frown. “My apologies, but I have business elsewhere.”

“And it can’t wait? Even for a few moments?” Lixio pleads. You hesitate. “Only a few seconds, even! Mixia and Xixia will not believe this one if this one tells them a human attended the party! Stay long enough for others to witness your presence, at least!”

Mixia and Xixia are this sylph’s friends, you hazard a guess. As desperately as you would like to get back on track and accomplish whatever you had come here to do, fostering amicable relations with the sylphs is crucial to keeping them peaceful. Gridania is already beset by the Ixal and the constant, looming threat of Garlemald’s invasion. You frown.

“I won’t be a very entertaining guest,” you inform them.

“It is the host’s humble duty to entertain,” Lixio chirps. “And you have already captured this one’s most vested interest!”

“You’re putting me on.” You accuse them flatly. They give a mock-gasp, pressing their hands to their cheeks in faux-astonishment.

“This one would never lie about something so important! You would have been shown the door without so much as a toodaloo if you were not so interesting!” they scold, turning around and beckoning you. “Come, come! This one spies an open seat just for you!”

For a reason beyond you, you stumble in tow, through the dark purple grasses and glowing patches of fungi. Lixio leads you to the tail end of the table, where another sylph is facing down two moogles, body shaking with rage as she shrieks.

“Such indolence! This one should banish you to the bogs! A hundred years of the mossy ones sneezing upon you!” they seethe.

“Our deepest apologies!” the moogle clad in a black, pointed hat shouts back above the noise. Several of his fellows at the table’s other end clink their bottles together. “We will replace it at the earliest convenience!”

“Meaningless! The party is happening now!” the sylph cried back in dismay. The moogles offered no response, another coming to tug the both of them into the dense crowd. Staring at where they had once been, you can’t help but take note of the way the black edges seem fuzzy and writhing in ways most mysterious. 

Towering pitcher plants of violet hue spit sparkling pollen clouds into the air above the side of the clearing where you’re seated. You’re not familiar with the species, but you know enough to not trust any of the region’s mysterious flora. You should move, but a steaming cup of tea is unceremoniously shoved in front of you. 

“Made from the best milkroot in all the Shroud!” Lixio crows with no small amount of pride. You swallow, observing the deep rosen liquid with no small amount of skepticism. Pink petals float on the liquid's surface.

“I appreciate it, but I’m not thirsty.” The corners of your lips twitch into what you hope is an appeasing smile. Is not being thirsty a good enough excuse to turn down a drink from your self-declared host? Should you have said you’re allergic? Lixio doesn’t seem to appreciate your refusal, little face scrunching up.

“It is most impolite to refuse your host’s hospitality,” Lixio fumes. Your lips press into a thin, straight line at the shrill pitch of their voice. With each moment, your tolerance rapidly dwindles. The cute charm of the sylph wares off with their newfound brattiness. It is one thing to be patronized by primals and Garlean commanding officers. It is entirely another to have this brussel sprout of a creature attempting to scold you. Why did you humor them at all? The voices around you grate your sensitive ears more with every passing moment, nose growing expeditiously agitating when combined with the bright luminescent colors which crowd every corner of your vision.

“I apologize,” you reply tersely. “But I am not comfortable—”

“Not comfortable!? What else must be done to please you?” Lixio inquires. They lean forward, into your space. One of their little arms knocks into the teacup they dropped before you. Several drops of the rosen liquid splatter onto the tablecloth. 

A shriek splits the air.

“You have ruined this one’s precious dining cloth!” the sylph who was tussling with the moogles mere moments ago turns their attention to your gracious host. They descend upon your gracious host, seizing and pushing Lixio by the shoulders. If not for their innate ability to float, they would have toppled out of their chair and onto the ground. “Ungrateful! Ungrateful, all of you are!”

“Fixia!” Lixio cries. “This one is sorry! This one will clean it—make it look all new and shiny! This one swears!”

“No! This one has had it with lies!” Fixia snaps, curling their tiny, leaflike fingers into the stained cloth. “No more! No! More!” With a strength belied by their slight frame, they pull at the cloth’s edge—and the entire table is upended. Porcelain flies into the air and shatters, drinkware clanging into sterling silver forks and spoons. Pale pastry cream slaps onto dry earth and dark dark grass, tea of scalding temperatures soaking the earth and splashing onto several, unfortunate bystanders.

They shriek and howl, the crowd thrown into immediate disarray. The fae folk dash and fly in all different directions. You slip away in the height of the panic, grateful to be seated so close to the thick treeline. The sounds of the chaos are soon in the far distance. The bright lights halo your silhouette in a smattering of kaleidoscopic color, fading in intensity the further you stray, diving back into the wood with less certainty than you had before the disastrous party. You hadn’t known Sylphs and moogles to mingle so freely. Perhaps they’ve been driven to cooperate by recent threats to the Shroud?

A matter to contemplate later, you decide. You can’t stray from your goal—which happens to be remembering what’s driven you out here in the first place.

In the distance, a river rumbles underneath a curved, wooden bridge. Vines of ivy and purplish leaves intertwine over the suspiciously thin railings. This is the deepest you’ve ever delved into the Eastern Shroud, often put off exploring by the hostile, tempered Sylphs which inhabit the wilds in great abundance. Whatever brought you here was deemed worth the trouble, but your memory remains out of your grasp. Perhaps Meteor would—

You freeze. Hardwood gives way to soft, loamy grass.

Meteor. Ardbert. Where are your teammates? How could you have forgotten them? Revulsion and white hot alarm begin to churn your stomach as you comb through the possibilities, but your thoughts come slow as molasses. Think—think, god dammit! You tap your fist into your temple as if trying to knock your head clear of whatever clogs it. It doesn’t work, of course, leaving you with a sore spot and the paralyzing dread of knowing something is amiss.

You stumble forward, rib cage throbbing dully as one urgent breath shudders out of the next. The air feels thick, like you can’t get enough of it at once—and soon you’re grasping in the dark, struggling to keep yourself upright.

It’s not a horrible place to collapse, you think through the haze. Maybe resting for a while will do you some good, maybe you’re too tired to think. 

You don’t realize you’re sliding down until your knees knock into the dirt. Surely, that too is fine. Surely, no bandit or other neerdowell would venture this deep into the Sylphlands, too terrified of fae magic and ferocious flora. From here, though, it's not too terrible. What you can see from underneath lowering eyelids is all beautiful in a strange, otherworldly manner. Dark purples coalesce with bright, pink petals and white shroom caps which glow soft in the peaceful dark. Yes, there will be plenty of light when you wake.

Someone calls your name. You huff and burrow yourself between the roots of the tree, bark scratching the thick fibre of your robes. You hardly mind the cold, damp bark on your cheek. Just a few minutes. Just a few—

Another shout, closer this time. 

Mere a few winks of peace—

A broad pair of hands seizes your shoulders and shakes, nearly throttling you against the trunk. When your eyes snap open, it's Ardbert’s concerned countenance which greets you.

“Are you with me?” he asks, leaning close. You can count his every eyelash. Relief crashes over you, nearly hard enough to render you breathless. Ardbert. You blink several times, just to make doubly sure that this is no cruel illusion borne of Sylph magic. But you reopen your eyes and he is still crouched in front of you, familiar face wound deep with concern.

“I’m up, I’m up—” you stagger to your feet, if only to avoid another jostling. His gloved hand wraps around your forearm, carrying an alarming majority of your weight. Too often, you forget just how strong your teammates are, just how easily they could snap bone if so prompted. “Are you alright? Where have you been, this whole time?” you gather your wits enough to ask. The adrenaline shakes away the worst of your weariness. 

Ardbert releases you with a haggard sigh, dragging his hand down his face.

“I should be asking you all that,” he begins, exasperated. “Do you have any idea what would have happened to you had you actually fallen asleep?”

“No, do you?” you rub a hand down your face, bleary eyes peering over your fingers as a beat of silence passes. And then another. And then—

“Well, no—but knowing the beasts which skulk around here, it would have been nothing good!” Ardbert blusters. “Now, come on. We have to find my brother.”

“You haven’t seen him?” you inquire. You have to jog a few paces to reach his side before he mellows into a slower stride, exhaling a long suffering sigh. You’ve known him long enough to peer beneath the hardened veneer he wears in the face of all challenges. He’s playing tough, but he’s just as lost as you are. The purple under his eyes is more pronounced than usual. He hasn’t been getting enough sleep. After all of this is over and solved, you’ll procure a tea or tonic to help. And maybe something for his flushed complexion.

His cheeks are a ruddy red, a thin sheen of sweat gracing his visible skin. You could have dismissed it as exertion, likely from roaming wild and reckless around the whispering wood, but the blush has only deepened since you began walking. Petal pink lips part around semi labored breaths.

“No. I haven’t,” Ardbert admits.

“Do you know how long ago you were separated? Did you come in together? I can’t remember a thing.” you confess. You’d not admit it aloud, but having another at your side—having someone to confide in and question is a reassurance you didn’t know you would miss. He’s firm and warm at your side, not as tall as some but still made steep by his warrior’s armor. 

He doesn’t answer. You glance over at him a second time. Still flushed. Feverish. Perhaps he’s allergic to some of the local flora? All manner of suspicious plant and flower populates the darkened boughs of the Twelveswood—each bearing their own fruits and pollen. Gods only know what those spores will do to a person.

“Ardbert? Are you alright?” you press gently.

“I’m fine. I just want to get out of this hellhole,” Ardbert insists brusquely, frown deepening. “Worry about yourself, for once.”

“I’m not the one who’s red as a tomato right now,” you huff, but otherwise keep careful to curb your sass. Quarreling will serve you no purpose in a place so hostile, you remind yourself. 

“It’s as humid as Ifrit’s arse out here,” Ardbert replies in kind, face twisted into a scowl. “And you were about to pass out before I found you—that’s worth more concern than a little bit of heat.” He argues, and you feel a near nauseating wave of deja vu was over you. It’s the beginning of a familiar dance, the steps of which only you two know. You don’t have the energy for it, right now. 

“If you say so. But if you start feeling off—”

Ardbert makes a rough, irritated sound. “You always do this,” he says, exasperated and angry, voice gravelly with the intensity of the emotion. 

“Do what?”

“You always get after both of us for not licking our wounds enough—but you never take proper care of yourself!” It’s an abrupt frustration that comes out of nowhere, like a flame jolting to life on a match. It reaches beyond the routine arguments you’re so used to. It weaves into the surrounding aether, not unlike the potent rage he involves on the battlefield. Pain cracks through the passion, the bottom of his lip beginning to wobble. He stops and turns on you abruptly. 

“What!? Where is this coming from!?” You stumble backwards, nearly tripping over your own coattails in the process. “You can nag me all you want, but let’s just focus on getting out here for now!”

He scoffs. “Really? Going to lecture me on focus when I just found you curled up in the dirt?”

“Oh, come off it! I was exhausted! I’ve been through a lot today, Ardbert, I don’t need you adding onto it—”

“Why not? You seem to have no problem adding everyone else’s rubbish onto your plate!” he snaps. 

Your eyes go wide as his shadow envelops you. “How do you think that makes us feel!?” Sticks and deadened grass crunches underneath his heavy leather boots as he approaches. “We watch you wring the near life out of yourself! Constantly! You forget to eat! You refuse to sleep!” He looms close. You don’t even realize you’re backing up until you bump into a gnarled trunk.

“Useless! It makes us feel useless!” he nearly snarls, fist pummeling into the trunk.  You flinch, withering backwards. The wood splinters beneath his gauntlet, pieces spat out onto your cloak. “We can’t ever help you because you keep letting your goddamn pride get in the way!”

“I’ve never asked for your help!” you splutter, fists clenching at your sides. Animal fear and righteous anger wrestle for dominance in your churning gut. 

“And that’s the entire problem! Your head is so far up your arse that you can’t even see when you need help!” he continues, voice pitching into a desperate shout. His chest is an iron wall, heaving with each labored breath. A wall in front of you, his arms bars. He’s right, you realize, and that’s the most irritating part of it. 

You can’t muster up an adequate reply, too busy searching for an opening. This has gone too far, beyond your typical quarreling. He’s not even a film away, face close enough to note each fine indent of his scowl. The warmth of his body seeps through his armor, even though it really shouldn’t—defying all reason to your muddled senses. The cloying heat that makes it harder to think, harder to wriggle away.

Broad palms cup your jaw. His fingers spread across your cheeks as he forces you to look up—up into glowing, pink eyes. Something in you shatters, then, utterly jarred by the unnatural neon you’re faced with. Only now do you clock how wrong all of him is, how the actors of this play aren’t quite fitting their roles. You open your mouth—to say what you do not know, but the words never quite come. They die on your tongue, because—

He’s kissing you. With warm, soft lips, pressing in and drinking deep of you. A hot tongue pushes into your gasping mouth, chases your own even as you writhe and push at his chest. Faintly, you’re aware of your hand around his wrist. You claw and scramble for purchase on his leathers, attempting to pry away from him. 

The difference in strength is too great, and the air is growing too thin. You’re making noise, little whimpers and whines which he swallows, steals them alongside each dwindling breath. Your consciousness begins to fade, black crackling at the edges—and it’s that which jolts you back into shocking awareness.

You cannot fall here. This is not your Ardbert.

Blind panic surges through your veins, levin crackling underneath your skin. The atmosphere trembles, the very fabric of the cosmos beckoned to your aid. A silvery sphere of raw aether sparks into existence behind him. The nearby foliage pulses, and is drawn into it alongside your companion’s devious duplicate. The fake is torn from you with an enraged animal sound.

You turn on foot and dash madly into the woods before the spell fully triggers, blowing everything it's drawn within to smithereens. You fumble over jutting roots and fallen branches, pulling lungfuls of precious air into your howling lungs. The world flies by in shadows of green and purple and brown, fluorescent mushrooms and flowers puffing clouds of suspicious spores. Only when you are alone do you at last come to a pause—bending over to gasp for much needed air. Your sweaty palm presses up against bark, wincing at the coarse bark against your slicked skin.

The situation is more severe and incomprehensible than it initially appeared. Something in the wood plays cruel tricks on you, to wear the faces of your companions. You’ll never forgive who is responsible, whether it be the Sylphs, the Moogles or any other manner of frivolous forest creature. You’ll slay them yourself, you decide.

With that vow made, you regain your breath and stomp back into the thickets, heading towards the gaping mouth of another treeline. Halfway, you pause, a sudden thought striking you.

If Ardbert had been a doppelganger, were either of your partners ever truly here in the first place?

The panic cooled into listless paranoia as you continued to roam. Desperately, you comb through every corner of your mind for some clue, some context as to why you arrived here in the first place. Your probing turns up frighteningly little. You can recall disembarking an airship and meeting with an official at the Adders Nest. The air was tinged with ripe lilac and honeysuckle until you took the ferry east, over murky waters and through verdant masses of algae. The skiff’s bow cut through the tranquil lake like a knife through warm butter.

That’s all you’re able to discern. The finer details pull away when you reach for them. Something, or someone, has purposefully obfuscated your memories. And all you can do is lumber exhaustedly through their crafted labyrinth, out of options and tools and sapped of every after casting impulsively and without a focus.

A flicker of familiar scarlet teases at the edge of your vision. You snap your head towards it, fears temporarily forgotten. Your gaze darts around in the dark, only to find more of what surrounds you. Deadened trunks and berry purple leaves.

Your shoulders slump, more exasperated with your own eyes for playing tricks on you than affected by the vision itself. A Warrior of Light can’t quake and crumble at the slightest of provocations. You’ve dealt with worse than this, fought stranger foes and outwitted politicians and enemy generals and gods alike. If you can’t surmount this—

A bell-like laugh echoes up and down the wood, a sound you never thought you would hear again.

“Come now, hero! Are you really going to let me run off a third time?” 

Familiar agitation sweeps through you at his mocking lilt. It feels nostalgic, in a way, but you know better than to chase a dismembered voice off in the distance. No matter how achingly familiar. You turn away, and you keep on walking—

“Really? You would ignore me after all we had together?” his voice is in your head, now, flat and disappointed. You whirl around, trembling fist clenched, but your dulled reflexes are but a moment too late. You’ev shoved backwards, and where you swore there had existed solid should is instead a slope covered in sticks which snag and leaves which crunch loud underneath your tumbling body. A pained shout wrenches from your chapped lips, flank landing hard on the dirt. 

You scrape your hands on bark and stone as you pull yourself to your feet. A mere film away is a tangle of bristling brambles. Count your blessings where you can find them, you suppose. Your hands raise to brush the clumped soil off your person. They never get that far.

The dark, still edge of a familiar blade tucks underneath your chin. You can’t remember seeing or hearing anyone approach, but you have often noticed that Meteor moves quieter and more discreetly than anyone in armor has any right to. But he’s keenly aware of that, too. He always makes noise on purpose, just to let you know he’s coming. To not scare you.

But not this time. His eyes are wide and wild, hair knocked into tangles, dirt and blood smudged across his face. The crimson is slick with its freshness. He’s a terrifying vision, hunched above you like a wolf looms over a wounded lamb.

“Meteor,” you rasp, quietest you have ever been, “It’s me—” you find the stones to continue after a long moment, spent in sheer disbelief that he would raise his weapon at you. His face twitches, but the eerie stillness there remains. There’s something anguished in his eyes.

“I’ve heard that, before,” he says ruefully, breathing heavily. “You won’t fool me. Not again.”

“You—what are you talking about—” you stammer. Realization crashes into you a moment later, fast and brutal as a Coerthan gale. “How many of me have you seen?” you can’t help but ask, swallowing against the pinprick of his blade.

He licks a bead of sweat from his lips. Mindlessly, you track the movement.

“Two, now. Ran them both through,” he admits, equal part confession and threat. There’s no wobble in his voice, though. No regret. Sympathy juts through the haze of your fear.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “That you had to—”

“No. Don’t even start.” he mutters, shifts closer.

“I’m real, Meteor. I can prove that I’m real,” you fumble backwards, pulse rumbling in your ears. Your back meets the unyielding stone of a nearby ledgeface, trapped between it and his unforgiving steel. “Ask me something only I would know!”

Meteor’s jaw ticks. “The second one said the same—and they were right,” he swallows. “—when they answered.”

“Then—Then I can just leave!” you exclaim, unable to keep the panic from your voice. You can’t even begin to fathom the implications of what he’s disclosed to you, not while the edge of his blade inches forward, kissing the column of your throat. “I won’t show my face again. I swear it!”

The space between his thick brows scrunches, for the first time breaching his glazed, wild expression. The sword wobbles against your skin, threatening to break it, before he heaves a great sigh and lowers it. You slump against the craggy wall, erupting into a series of sputtering, shaky breaths. You must make a pitiful picture, but the relief is so palpable that you can’t bring yourself to much care.

He remains there, looming and still as a statue, deadly weapon still clutched in his hand.

“I’ll—I’ll just be doing, then,” you assure him once you’ve regained your breath. It kills you to leave him here, distressed and alone, but you can’t solve this conundrum if you’re dead. You’ll have to come back for him, and in the meantime hope he isn’t visited by any other spectors wearing your face.

Though, maybe you should worry more for yourself. The phantom feeling of Ardbert’s hands sticks cold to your skin, a poignant reminder of the danger that lurks.

“There’s an Ardbert imposter running around,” you inform him, wincing as you pull yourself to your feet. A piercing ache throbs in your left side. No doubt it’ll be a nasty bruise, later. “I know you don’t believe me I’m real. I just thought you should—”

His hand cups the underside of your jaw, the cool metal of his gauntlets firm against your overheated skin. The clawed tips prick your cheeks. You blink stupidly, numbly as he seizes you, lifts your head to meet his imposing, keen gaze. He’s analyzing you, you think, searching for something you cannot quite name. Your pulse thrums against his forearm, in your throat, skin brushing against the metal with each throb of blood through the vein.

“Meteor—” you rasp, frozen in place by the weight of his attention alone. A beast brays somewhere in the far distance. The forest squirms and shivers despite a lack of wind.

His eyes shut. He exhales, trembling. He’s testing your measure, yet to what parameters you do not know. You can only linger in the space between the seconds, awaiting his judgment. 

He opens his eyes. “You’re real,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes across your lower lip, careful to mind his claw. His eyes flutter shut, brown lashes tucking against pale cheeks. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” you reply automatically, rising to your feet. You know full well that he would never raise arms against you unless under significant duress, unless out of his mind. 

“It isn’t,” Meteor replies coolly, raking a hand through his hair. “But now isn’t the time.”

You don’t reply nor do you give into the sweet relief his presence brings. He looks like he’s struggling with what else to say, lips pulled into a straight line.

“So, let’s pool our information,” you speak up, just to spare him the agony of his own thoughts. There’ll be plenty of time to wallow in his guilt later. You don’t need any more platitudes or pleas for forgiveness—the moment has passed and neither of you should live in it.

Meteor heaves a sigh, “After we arrived in the Shroud, a fog settled over the entire area. I could hardly see my own hands—”

“Forgive me, but why did we come to the Shroud in the first place? I…” you chew on the inside of your cheek, warmth rising to your cheeks. The idea of you forgetting the specifics of a mission is completely out of character, and horribly humiliating. The question gets stuck in your throat, stubborn pride warring with your own rampant need for context, for information. “I can’t seem to remember.”

“We…” Meteor pauses, blinking. His gaze crawls from you, eyes glazing as he stares across the empty clearing. “Came to gather milkroot.”

“...Milkroot?” your eyes narrow. This is a poor time for jokes—the notion that the Scions would send you here to do chores is laughable, but Meteor nods. Dead serious as he’s ever been.

“Over the past moon, it’s grown out of proportion. It’s making the tempered Sylphs come out from deeper in the wood.”

“Alright. So you happen to know where this particularly intrusive patch of milkroot is?” You’re still not sure if you believe him. And if you do happen to believe him, you’re still miffed at being deployed for pest control, of all things. You’ve felled three primals and beasts of equal strength. You are above getting on your knees in the dirt to clean up some random mess.

“I do,” Meteor nods. “But the thicket… It's hard to navigate. I’ve already been lost twice.”

“I can only imagine,” you mumble, sympathetic. “Well, given it's our only lead, we can head there first. Does that sound alright?”

And Meteor nods, by far the most well-behaved tank you have ever met, both in and outside of battle.

He does, taking you through winding pathways, skirting along the very edges of the darkened deepwood. In the distance, you spy purple sylphs and tall plants with wide, spikes maws. Their broad stems rise and fall as if breathing. Clouds of poison expel into the air with each breath. 

“Meteor—” you say, and then swallow. The ambient aether pulses around you—and suddenly you are in that far off distance, surrounded by them on all sides. The air is sickly sweet and sparkling ripples of bright purple glisten through the gloom in undulating waves. You stagger, boots scuffing on the dark dirt. Everything seems to breathe now. Thick trunks and brambled branches, expanding and shrinking. Your gaze lifts to the canopy.

Meteor says your name. A firm hand clasps your wrist, firm and grounding. Your lungs feel tight, throat constricted. Dazed and unfocused as you are, you manage to find his gaze among the swimming dark. Have his eyes always been so bright?

But it’s not enough. You feel yourself crumple, not all at once. one part of the body after the other. Mere moments feel stretched into minutes, your world condensing to stuttered snapshots. Meteor, distraught. An oversized log up top the slope. A lone sylph, faced away from you. Strands of green and stiff purple grass, which tickles your cheek.

And then, the eerie black.

There is no time between when you shut your eyes and reopen them. A fraction of a moment at most. Your eyelids pry open and you are back on your feet, mid-step. 

“Drowsing on the job again, are we?” G’raha Tia says. Your brain stutters, struggling to piece together his presence. It’s beyond jarring. It’s like seeing your smallclothes laid out on the Rising Stones’s Bar. A piece of you, something so close and intimate, dragged out and misplaced for all to see. 

He looks different then the last time you saw him. Both of his eyes are blue. His hair is longer, fastened into a thick but wild braid. A greatbow slung across his back is emblazoned with golden accents and striking blue gemstones. One half of his shirt is blue, the other black. The neckline hangs low, the fabric bunched by a red and black sash wound around his waist. Sheathed daggers and miscellaneous pouches hang off two belts slung underneath it. Another is fastened around his thigh. Some of the gold bangles tied round his arm gloves and thigh high boots sport beads in the shape of the sun and stars. A bard, you think.

“I…” you begin, tongue heavy in your mouth. What had he asked of you, again? You blink, attempting to clear away the lingering haze. 

“You know how that old saying goes—sleep late and you lose the worm and all that,” he says, eyes glimmering. Playful. “And if I’m not mistaken, this will be the third such occasion in which you’ve missed the goal.”

“The third?” your lips peel into a frown, familiar agitation sparking within you. “What are you counting as the first two?”

“If it truly mattered to you, you would have remembered by now,” his smile turns wry, blue eyes so bright and bitter. Your jaw locks, awareness washing over you like grains broken from an hourglass, sands of time settling heavy and suffocating atop your chest. The anger, the pain, the loss—it tastes coppery. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” you protest.

His gaze softens. “You don’t believe that.”

“How would you know? You’re the one who left without so much as a word! You couldn’t even be bothered to leave a note behind, G’raha!” The anger erupts from you all at once, typical restraint worn by the day’s events—the day’s events, you realize. 

This isn’t real. G’raha Tia is long gone. This is another cruel illusion conjured specifically to waste your time and demoralize you. You need to leave.

“Why would I write a note to someone who clearly couldn’t stand me? From the moment we met, you made it painfully clear that you wanted no part of me. You only tolerated my presence, as though I were a coworker’s child getting underfoot. You despised me, but you despised the fact that you needed me even more.” Every word drives into you like a rusty prong of steel, wounds just begun to close reopened and stung, skin split and stitches burst. All at once, you feel speechless and small, no better than a child.

“And you never bothered to examine why I behaved in the manner that I did! Did you not once consider that I only wanted to impress the vaunted Warriors of Light!? To prove that I was worthy to stand at your side!?”

“Stop,” you gasp, and it feels like getting sick, the back of your throat for some reason rubbed raw—like you’ve been running a marathon or screaming out your bedraggled soul. 

“Perhaps, if I felt I could confide in you, I would have told you. Perhaps you could have convinced me to stay.” G’raha continues, voice soft again. The anger and agony is gone, now. Only the stillness of a soul lost or given up, looking out across the short tale of his life in pensive reflection.

 “Perhaps I could have gone on to be an adventurer, too.” His voice is nearly smothered by the sound of wildlife, groans and chirps and howls and clicks erupting around you. The shadows reach out like spindly fingers. Every hair on your body stands on end. Your instincts scream for you to rush forward and shield him from the malignant presence which haunts this horrible, wild place.

Not this time, though. Not for this delusion. Your jaw clenches as the bleak, empty dark encloses on him like a flower’s petals. You stand there, and comfort yourself with the knowledge that this is too a phantasm, a vision spun for the sole sake of your distress.

You blink, and the murky depths disappear. Meteor is standing in front of you, eyes bright and face hard with concern.

“I’m alright,” the words are out of your mouth before you can even think. Automatic, at this point. “We can keep going.”

“I can carry you, if you’re tired.” he informs you. His barely flat delivery makes you wonder whether he’s offering or simply telling you a fun fact. 

“You don’t have to. I’m fine,” you sound weaker than you would like, reedier. “And we should both be concerned about the doppelgangers running around. They’re likely Sylph illusions, but simple magicks cannot explain how they knew such intimate details about us.” And about your relationships. The illusory Ardbert’s words had been weighed by honest, clear agony. 

“Perhaps the culprit is no mere Sylph,” he suggests.

“Who would it be, then?” you scoff, kicking a large brand off the path, which has started to thin. Up ahead lay another dark bridge, the river churning below. The area leading up to it is no larger than three films across, and populated by several tangles of bramble. It’s little wonder that the tempered Sylphs of the deepwood don’t make their own fortresses. Nature is more than willing to supply it for them.

Meteor provides you with an informative shrug, leaving you to stew with the possibilities. Frankly, you cannot name a single person who would be privy to the innermost workings of your troublesome trio. Most enemies don’t get close enough for a chance at conversation, and most allies are kept at a strict arm’s length. By you, at least.

You shut your eyes for a moment as your mounting headache returns full force, but a moment is all it takes for you to stub your toe on a stray root. You curse, voice echoing up and down the misty boughs.

Meteor looks at you pointedly, head tilting. You glare.

“No.” you say. 

He takes a step closer. Into your personal space. It takes all of your healer’s patience not to unleash a volley of crass curses directly into his face.

“No, I’m fine,” you firmly insist. “I don’t need any coddling.”

Meteor looks remarkably unimpressed. “What’s your plan, then? Please, enlighten me.” he says, completely flat. “Wander aimlessly through the woods until you twist your ankle on another vine?”

Your face crinkles like you’ve just eaten a serving of Archon Loaf. Since when has he been… so sassy? So prone to backtalk?

No—it makes sense. Being forced to slay even an illusion wearing his face and speaking in his voice would shake you, likely leave you rattled for weeks. So of course he’s on edge, snappier than usual. You take in another deep breath, count to three, and exhale, willing your tempestuous temper away.

“I won’t lie. I am… unsure of the specifics of our situation. However, I have a few theories,” you lean up against the closest tree trunk and roll your head back, shutting your tired eyes. G’raha Tia comes to you in flashes, blue eyes deep and haunted. You settle for staring at the dark canopy instead. 

“We could be inside a sealed space which repeats itself, where elements of terrain are randomly placed to give the illusion that we are genuinely traversing the forest. Such a complex spell requires a skilled caster and a bevy of aether at their disposal. The Sylphs are, for the most part, natural born casters and obtaining the crystals required could be as simple as leading a few unlucky merchants astray from the trodden path.” you finished with a grimace. “A likelier theory is that we’ve been trapped in some kind of dream.

“All three of us together?” Meteor inquires, placid mien betraying no skepticism. It’s a relief that your hypothesis hasn’t been met with immediate disbelief. Some of the tension melts from your body as you open your mouth. 

Before you can speak, someone calls to you from across the clearing.

Meteor shifts into a defensive stance, clean steel of his greatsword aimed at the approaching, darkly dressed figure. It takes you a moment to see it, to genuinely sew the embellished black plate, the eyes deep and wide and hauntingly blue. The tips of his ruffled hair kisses the space where his stubble begins.

No, oh gods, no—the forest fades into black nothingness, silent but it must be laughing. Laughing, because you were foolish enough to not anticipate this. The air struggles to stay in your lungs. Your ears pound, your chest thuds with white hot panic, rolling up your spine and forking into the base of your skull. You can’t handle this, right now. You stare numbly at the approaching form of a second Meteor.

You should have expected this. If the mastermind was able to so seamlessly replicate Ardbert, then it is only reasonable to expect the same of Meteor.

“Stay behind me,” Meteor says, quiet yet uncompromising. As if you plan to step in front of the hulking slab of metal he calls a sword. “Leave us alone. We know you’re an imposter.”

His doppelganger, rather than responding to him directly, looks at you instead, concern writ plain across his furrowed brow. Meteor stands taller to block his view of you, black pauldon sheltering you from that pained, beseeching stare.

“You’re as bold as I expected a Sylph-borne simulacrum to be,” the doppelganger begins. He calls your name, then. 

“Bold accusations from a shade with no proof.” Meteor rebuffs. “I’ll not warn you a second time. Leave, or your Sylph masters will receive what remains of you in hand baskets.”

Traveling together begets familiarity. Yet, you would never claim to know Meteor’s every facet. Yet, you cannot suppress the wave of wrongness that sweeps through you. It’s a sudden chill. In all the times he has stood firm between you and the enemy, he has never been so verbose. No, he cuts down the enemy before they can even spit a word. The sprout of dread burgeons within you, renders you near breathless as you stare at his back, desperate to get a closer look at his eyes.

The other Meteor calls your name a second time.

“I lack the time to bother with paltry words. You know that.” he says, desperate to be known, to be believed. And it’s true. It’s completely true. An idiosyncrasy that only he would be aware of. You step back, instinctively reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. Your boots scuff the dark dirt, and the Meteor who you’ve been accompanying whirls around. He looks like you’ve knocked the wind out of him, staring at you in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me you believe him,” he says. His eyes are wild and wide with horror.

“I—I—” It’s much more difficult to defend your position when he’s looking at you like that. It’s a look he only fixes you with on the rare occasions that you get a scrape or cut in battle. Scrutinizing and perhaps annoyed, but feral with concern. Like he’d reach his hands inside of you to fix any misaligned inners. Like he’d sink his teeth into the throat of those responsible. All gnashing fangs and frayed bangs, blood and soot and dirt smudged on his cheeks.

You take another step back. Where there was once a blank dirt road, there is—something, something which slithers around your ankle and pulls, sending you tumbling to the earth. You wince at the initial impact, earlier injuries sent spasming.

A few fulms away, you can see him start in your direction, outline of a curse on his lips. He’s lowered his greatsword by a hair, head craned to snatch a brief look at you. But that’s all it takes.

Sabled steel slices clean through his middle. Blood gushes onto the ground. His armor dents where it’s been cut through, gnarled metal groaning as he crashes to the floor—spasming. Bile rises in the back of your throat as you watch his lips open around strained wheezes. Here, in the dim dark, you are forced to confront your worst fear. The life bleeds out of him, the wound too gaping for your feeble aether to mend. You try, anyway, crawling over dirt and twigs to reach him. A clammy palm presses against the cold, cold curve of his chestplate.

The aether sparks feebly at your fingertips. The skin stings and burns but you push through—it is a mere fraction of the rest of the pain you have been put through today, after all. Beaten and bruised, you try and pour everything which remains into his shuddering body. His torso twitches like a fish brought to land. Fervent even now, in the throes of death. 

His eyes glaze. He stops moving. He’s looking at you, still. 

You choke back a scream.

The body explodes into a sparkling cloud of purple aether, before vanishing altogether. Another imposter, this entire time. Twice now, you have been so thoroughly fooled. You cannot claim to be close friends of either brother, but you know them. You know Ardbert leaves extra tips for bar keepers and inn maids and checks the doors and windows twice each before retiring to bed. You know Meteor only ever haggles in Ul’dah, and that he runs errands for the folk of every settlement and city which you visit. You know when Ardbert is close to lashing out because his jaw locks and he gets this little line on his chin. You know when something is troubling Meteor because he fidgets, most often with his gauntlet straps.

All of that, and still you readily believed their imposters, even made excuses for them! Your hands curl into fists, strands of grass crushed between them. Your eyes stay wide open, the imposter’s last few moments ingrained in your mind’s eye. You will see it every time you blink.

It was a fake, sure, but it still wore his face. It looked at you with his eyes and called out to you in his voice.

Much like the voice that calls to you know. Meteor is wearing a grimace as he makes his way over to you, no doubt disconcerted at having to bring his own doppelganger to the sword.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lips pulled into a disgusted frown. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.” He doesn’t bother asking if you’re alright, because you’re not and you know that much is obvious. You have faith that you look as much of a wreck as you feel. 

You swallow, and do not take his hand, because even this too feels wrong. If you were an ilm less wise, you would reason that paranoia from today’s ordeals has set in. But you now know that nothing in this horrible, labyrinthine place adheres to reason or empathy.

A nearby cluster of tall, bulbous flowers glows bright yellow. The light catches on his armor, his sword and his eyes—which gleam that horrible, acidic violet.

“Stay away from me!” you push yourself to your feet and scramble backwards. “I know what you are, now! Stop hiding behind someone else’s face, you spineless wretch!”

It inhales deeply. Patiently.

“You’re afraid, and it’s affecting how you see things,” he coaxes, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “There’s no need to be afraid. If you would just let me—” His eyes flash a hot pink. He goes silent, arms dropping back to his sides. His expression loses his desperate candor, glazed and empty. You don’t stick around to wonder why. A searing ache burns at your walk-weary legs, exhausted muscles crying out for sweet reprieve. You heave yourself to your feet regardless, ignoring the stubborn pain. The myriad cuts and bruises you’ve amassed since this all began sting and throb. 

You still don’t know what “this” is. You’re still at square one, without a clue or a hope to get you by. All that matters now is getting as far from this newfound imposter as possible. You rush across the clearing, gritting your teeth through the agony.

The imposter says something, then. You’re too distracted to hear, but you can clearly make out the sound of his boots thudding as he gives chase. Animal fear sets your body aflame, bolts of levin dancing up and down your spine. Every heaving gasp burns the back of your dry throat, eyes watering against  a sudden gust of wind. You cannot die here.If you were in better shape, if you hadn’t been run so ragged, perhaps you’d be able to claw your way out of this. But he bridges the distance between you with pathetic ease.

“This a terrible shame to lose someone so skilled,” he says. He shoves an elbow into your mid-back, harsh plate slamming into your spine. “You could have served on His Majesty’s court.”

You crash to the ground for what feels like the thirtieth time today, shuddering and clawing at the dirt, feet kicking out as you attempt to delay the inevitable. Oh god, you realize belatedly, deliriously, that this is where you die. In the dark and alone, covered in sweat and grime, last moments spent wriggling in filth like a pig. This is how they will find you—if anyone even does, rumpled and beaten and bloody—no partners to lend you aid or shield you. No one to fret over your wounds or nag you to rest. 

Ardbert  was right. Black spots swim at the edges of your vision. Behind you, the whoosh of a blade winds through the air.  May it be swift, you pray, and shut your eyes.

The blow never reaches you. 

The sound of a thousand windows shattering nearly blows out your eardrums. The noise is almost a physical force, erupting from the space only a few fulms ahead of you. Tendrils of blinding daylight reach in as the darkened skies seem to fall to pieces, starlit canopy cracking and crumbling to the earth in crystalline shards.

A blur of brown streaks past your left side, but the enraged roar it makes is familiar enough to make your eyes water with tears unshed. Steel screams against steel. In that instant, you drop. All fight leaves your body, head thunking into the soil. You turn your face to the side to avoid a mouthful of dirt. 

You cannot see the full scope of the fight, because a pair of arms circle around your prone body. You’re lifted fast enough to make your head spin, nausea churning in your gut. All you can do is swallow down the acid bile, lest you stain Meteor’s dark plate and leathers. 

Instead you let loose a dry, rasping sob. The nightmare is over. You have nothing else to fear. All of the mysteries you have agonized over will be explained in due time. 

You fall to pieces. Above you, Meteor’s lips are moving, but you can’t make out a word over the shattering and screaming and thrumming of your traitorous heart. He looks down at you, and you would feel guilty at the abject horror and concern written plain across his face if you were not so, so relieved. You cry, and cry, and cry, not even caring when the points and hard flats of his armor jostle your wounds because he is here and he is real. He is so achingly, endlessly and utterly real.

It is relief, not fear, which blurs your vision and runs down your cheeks. Relief deeper than you ever thought you could feel. So deep that you submerge into it, sinking into the merciful empty of a well-deserved sleep.

[voidsentprinces]

Welcome to the ROYAL MENAGERIE!

[nobutakafairclough]

Alright. Here we are at the end of Season 2 of Coffee & Carbuncles! Please enjoy my wonderful interview with the team of Moogle Go Round Radio and I will see you back at the café in early February, 2025!

[windupiceheart]

ffxivwrite #6 - Ring

wc. 731, B'ig Nunh and you 🫵, pov: you are going on a date with B'ig Nunh

You are going on a date with B’ig Nunh to the Eorzean Moogle Fair this fair day.

He planned it weeks in advance, saying that it was so important that you and him went as it only came around once every couple years. He was super excited about it so you had to say you’d go. Because you love him, of course. 

When you arrive at the fair, there isn’t a B’ig Nunh in sight. Though there are many people wearing hats similar to his moogle hat with a heart pom. You look around, playing a game of spot the Miqo’te in couerl briefs you know he’s going to wear. When you first met him, you thought they were an interesting choice in fashion, but they’ve really grown onto you,   kind of. You finally spot a bright blue spot in the distance, rapidly approaching you. 

“Sorry, I’m late!!!” B’ig Nunh shouts while running towards you. Before he can get to you, he trips and falls and a little kyaa comes out of him. He quickly gets back up. “I’m okay.”

You find this cute for some reason. He’s so funny and interesting and sexy and hot and– you don’t know what came over you, must be the author’s bias. “Hi B’ig,”

“Hi, my sweet snurble,” He says, holding your hands and pulling you closer. You laugh.

“Snurble?” He laughs too. 

“Oh, I made this for you.” he pulls out a bag tied with a very pretty ribbon. “Balls.”

“Huh.” You open the bag and surely enough, those are balls. B’ig Nunh’s homemade chocolate balls that is. You playfully push the side of his head. “You jokester.”

“Let’s go already!” B’ig Nunh pulls you towards the fair. There’s so many moogle themed things here. Anyone who hates moogles must hate this place. Not B’ig Nunh though, how could he hate moogles when he’s been wearing the moogle hat longer than you’ve known him. 

The two of you go on the fair’s attraction rides, whether the ones you ride are like the huge wyrmcoaster or like the moogle-go-round, or both, we will never know. 

“Let’s go on another one!” B’ig Nunh says enthusiastically. You’re actually a bit tired now. 

“I’ll pass, but you can go ahead. I’ll wait here.” 

“What? No, I’d rather stay here with you,” that makes your cheeks flush. The two of you start walking around the fair. 

B’ig Nunh points to one of the stands. “Hey look! Funny hats!” 

He pulls you towards the hats. You both put the novelty hats on each other and laugh.

“Wait,” he grabs one of the headbands and puts it on you. It was a moogle headband with a heart shaped pom. “We’re matching now!”

–

The night sky falls over you. Time flies when you’re having fun. B’ig suggests that you walk along the river with him, a little ways away from the fair. The cool air hits your face. It’s nice. 

B’ig Nunh runs a little ahead of you and crouches, putting his arms behind him. “Hop on.”

“Hop on?” 

“Yeah! I’ll carry you.” You mount B’ig Nunh. He carries you with ease and runs as fast he can along the riverside. This is very impressive or just okay depending on how big you are. Later he puts you down and immediately starts carrying you bridal style. You get a great view of his extremely handsome, hot, sexy face, maybe even the sexiest in Eorzea. You get to a nice area and he finally actually puts you down. He hugs you.

“You know, we’ve been together for,      an amount of time.” He loosens his grip so he can look at you. You gaze into his beautiful hot sexy cerulean and greenish cerulean eyes that glisten in the moonlight. “I love you, Y/N.” 

He takes a step back and bends down on one knee, his bare knee because he’s not wearing proper trousers... Your heartbeat quickens in anticipation. He looks up at you and smiles and pulls an extremely shiny, metallic blue box. He opens it to reveal a silver ring with a heart shaped gem. 

“Will you–”

 “hi b’ig” Vertical said walking downstairs, interrupting B’ig’s reading mid sentence and taking him out of his imaginative delusions. He put down his book and looked up at Vertical from his bed. 

“Hey! B’ig Nunh was just about to propose to me!” he huffed.

“?” 

[aoife-asturmaux]

gets to 200 moogle tomes, blows all of them at once

i want a ton of things from this round of moogle tomes, both for aoife and for my alts, so im going a little nuts farming haha........ but im glad alliance raids i wanted to run are in demand again!!

[amaurotine-daydreaming]

XXV. Call It A Day

Sanson glanced up. The knocking came again, squarely on his door, and he begrudgingly got up and opened it.

Heavens help him, it was Guydelot.

-

As beautiful as the open skies of The Sea of Clouds were, Sanson was thoroughly relieved when at last the airship touched down in the embrace of the Twelveswood. He was well and truly exhausted since the encounter with the siren–to say nothing of the emotional adrenaline of having Guydelot suddenly reappear as if they had never parted on bad terms, an easy smirk on his face and the heavens in his voice.

Sanson was looking forward to dragging himself home–the full report, he decided, could wait until tomorrow when both himself and the hour were more presentable–but no sooner had they set foot in Gridania when Guydelot suggested a celebratory drink. Mogta beside him clamored for the same, and the Warrior wasn’t opposed. And so it was that their little fellowship sat down at a table at the Carline Canopy and ordered a round.

They stayed there for a time, recalling the length and breadth of their adventure. Mogta ultimately folded first, saying he would find a nice tree to slumber in and then visit his fellow moogles in the Twelveswood the following morning. The Warrior bid them good night not long after.

With his audience apparently now lacking, Guydelot had then migrated a few tables away to where a large group of adventurers sat carousing. He was now several songs into embellishing their tales, and earning toasts and cheers of approval after every one. 

Which left Sanson alone at their table. 

Bloody bards and their constant need to be at the center of things, Sanson thought. Twelve forbid he had started to enjoy Guydelot’s company, and that he had been looking forward to sitting alone with him for a time until sleep had forced him to say good night. There had been a few things he had hoped they would say to one another….

At first Sanson thought he might wait it out, and made his next order a cup of tea instead of another mead. He sat there for a time, reviewing his journal entries and nursing his drink as well as his pride, glancing over at Guydelot’s table every now and again.

Unfortunately, it seemed the adventurers were in no hurry to call it a night, and Guydelot was still deep in conversation and verse and the attentions of his newest admirers. Over the chatter, the occasional chord from his harp threaded its way over to Sanson. Sanson oft felt swept up in Guydelot’s skill with song, even when he wove lyrics designed to aggravate him, but right now it was just plain distracting. For some reason, each and every note needled him.

Sanson stood abruptly. Sod it. He was calling it a day. He settled the tab–some of which was Guydelot’s, but to hells with it–and trudged upstairs.

It was only when he was midway through unlocking the door to his room that he thought, What in the Matron’s name am I doing?

He had residency in Gridania, for gods’ sake! He didn’t need to be staying at The Roost. He groaned at his own idiocy. All that traveling had habituated him to seeking temporary lodgings, and he was so exhausted and irritated at Guydelot that he had arranged for himself a room without bloody thinking. 

Sanson stood there for a minute, head bowed, hand on the doorknob. He could go back downstairs and make a fool of himself–admit that he didn’t need a room, get his gil back, and head for his actual residence. But it would be embarrassing, and Guydelot would be sure to take notice and have a jab at his expense—

Sod it twice over. He would stay here for the night, and Guydelot could do whatever he damn well pleased with the rest of the evening.

Sanson hung up his lance, pulled out a chair by the small desk, and began to unlace his boots. A coeurl couldn’t change their spots, he thought with some resignation. Yet a part of him wasn’t ready to believe that the battle with the siren was just an intermission in his and Guydelot’s otherwise fraught relationship, rather than a true turning point. 

Sanson had just finished pulling off his thighboots when he heard three sharp, rhythmic taps. He glanced up at the door and tilted his head, unsure of whether he had misplaced the sound. But then the knocking came again, squarely on his door, and he begrudgingly got up and opened it.

Heavens help him, it was Guydelot.

“Yes, Guydelot?” Sanson grated. “I thought you were busy basking in the attentions of the fairer sex.”

Guydelot tsked and leaned against the door frame. “Back to being stiff as a board already, are you?”

Sanson pinched the bridge of his nose. Gods, and he had already been on the verge of a headache. 

Guydelot cocked his head lazily. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Sanson looked up at him sharply. But Guydelot just stood there, making slow, catlike blinks, until Sanson wordlessly opened the door wider and stepped aside, gesturing him through.

“I was about to retire for the evening,” he told Guydelot pointedly, closing the door behind him.

Guydelot smoothly sat down in the chair Sanson had vacated, harp in hand. Sanson sighed. If Guydelot had suddenly been captured by his muse, Twelve only knew how long he’d be here for. Maybe he could head him off before he got too comfortable.

“What do you want, Guydelot.”

Guydelot held up a finger for silence. His hand then lowered to the strings. One, two, three heartbeats of silence, then his fingers began to dance, the tune they conjured airy and soft. An instrumental, soothing enough to lull a listener into relaxation or even sleep. 

But Sanson could certainly not relax, let alone sleep, until he had managed to usher Guydelot back out of his room. And so he sank back against the door and gazed toward the ceiling, battling equally his exasperation and the mesmerizing tug of the melody. 

Guydelot began to sing.

“An Adder’s eyes of ocean blue ♪ With songs sung in their depths ♪ And yet - a pity - he cannot tell ♪ When love has come at love’s behest. ♪”

Sanson started. His gaze dropped down to stare at Guydelot, who for the moment seemed wholly focused on his playing.

“His boon companion sought his gaze ♪ No stirring in his breast ♪ As when those eyes of ocean-hue ♪ On him did chance to rest. ♪”

Sanson could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “Guydelot,” he finally managed, “what in the seven hells are you on about.” 

“No contest to be had by maidens fair ♪ No contest to be had by any there…. ♪”

Guydelot simply looked at him then, his eyes hooded as his fingers glided along the strings. Sanson’s heart crawled into his throat.

“For since the end of siren’s song ♪ A desire mutual, all along. ♪”

The verse ended and the melody drifted to a close. Sanson felt like he was trying to catch his breath. His hands curled. “You…then–” 

Guydelot’s lips curled into a smirk. 

Sanson strode over and grabbed Guydelot by the collar, standing astride his chair and leaning down so they were practically nose to nose. 

“All along?” Sanson’s thoughts were buzzing so frantically in his head that he could hardly make sense of them. “Then stop teasing me, you arse!”

The eagerness with which Guydelot set aside his harp was all Sanson needed. 

The messy, glorious collision of their lips and tongues was, like everything else that Guydelot caught him up in, exhilarating and breathtaking and all too easily spun out of Sanson’s control. He inhaled raggedly through his nose and sank into Guydelot’s lap, burying a hand in Guydelot’s hair to anchor himself.

“Gods,” Sanson said when they parted, his breath hitching as Guydelot began kissing up his neck. “Gods, Guydelot. I thought–...And, Matron preserve, you scared me when you didn’t come back after Tailfeather. I thought I had ruined things between us for good–”

“You thought you had ruined things,” Guydelot muttered against his throat, and it bobbed as Sanson swallowed down his emotion. “I was the bloody fool, misjudging you the way I did, turning my back on you–I couldn’t well face you afterward–” He pulled back and tugged on a handful of the strands of hair framing Sanson’s face, bringing him back in and slanting their lips together once more.

“I waited for you,” Sanson said against his mouth, one hand still fisting his collar. “At Tailfeather, at Sohm Al, Moghome–”

Guydelot’s hands moved to curl around Sanson’s hips. “Aye, I know.”

Sanson pulled back and stared at him, surprised. Guydelot shrugged loosely.

“I wasn’t far behind. I said I couldn’t face you, not that I couldn’t stand to be near you, even if you can be bloody obnoxious sometimes–”

“Hah, speak for yourself,” replied Sanson, breathlessly. “You can be a right pain in the arse, Guydelot, but gods know there was no hope for me since that noble act you did with the nameday present—” he kissed Guydelot again, “—and doubly so when your heavens-sent voice and song came out of nowhere to save us from the siren.”

“Hmph,” Guydelot said, smiling. He drew a hand to Sanson’s nape and pressed deep against the muscle and tissue, massaging there. Sanson melted against him with a relieved sigh.

“Finally, Sanson the Stiff relaxes,” Guydelot said. “Well,” he shifted his hips pointedly, “most of him, anyway.”

Sanson lightly thumped his shoulder. “Bastard,” he mumbled. Guydelot snickered, but Sanson couldn’t be bothered, not when the last coils of tension between them were finally unraveling. 

“Well, it seems it was for the best that I ended up getting a room,” he mused.

Guydelot arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

“Exhaustion. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Ah.”

Something in Guydelot’s voice rang oddly. When Sanson pulled back to look at him, Guydelot was suddenly very keen on looking just about anywhere else.

“Just a moment,” Sanson said, a suspicion nagging at him. “Why did you think I chose to rent a room?”

Guydelot didn’t quite succeed in making his answering shrug nonchalant. 

A wave of heat crawled up Sanson’s neck and rolled across his cheeks. “Now hold on–me, of all people–”

“Why else would you have?” Guydelot finally snapped, his pale cheeks also reddening. “You made yourself bloody obvious about coming up here.”

“Gods!” Sanson laughed, pressing a palm against his forehead. It was a small consolation that Guydelot was clearly feeling mortification as well. “No, that was not the intent…but I don’t dislike the outcome.”

“Aye, well,” Guydelot’s fingers gentled on Sanson’s nape, shifting from massaging to thumbing gently across his skin, “that makes two of us.”