laeorinel

[laeorinel]

FFXIV Write - Day 3: Tempest

Without warning, the storm struck. Raging winds, deafening cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning filled the late afternoon air. And it had started as such a nice day…

Samara jumped as thunder struck again, the rickety windows of her workshop in Limsa Lominsa creaking and trembling in ever more concerning fashions. Logically she knew thunder alone would not be enough to bring down the part of alabaster laden towers she was in, and there was plenty of stone, wood and metal between her and the tempest raging outside, but that did little to calm her nerves. Gods did she hate storms.

Growing up in the Steppe’s, being caught out by a storm was as near as a death sentence. Even being inside a yurt did not guarantee your safety. One stray bolt of lightning and the yurt could be set ablaze. 

She used to be good at predicting storms, she still could with decent accuracy when out in the wilds. It was second nature to her. But in the city? Everything felt and looked different. Air currents did not flow in the same way and the heat from Gods knows how many forges and fire pits made it all but impossible to detect changes in temperature. The only warning she and others had this time was the nice bright and sunny afternoon suddenly shifting to pitch black night. 

Moving around her workshop and makeshift apartment quickly she shut every window, shutter and curtain. Everything she could to block out the noise and flashing lights. She made sure all of her crafting equipment was stored away and the materials locked away safely in one of the old wardrobes built into the stone walls. She double checked, then triple checked, her food stocks and other supplies. She checked the travel pack she always kept ready if she needed to flee at a moment's notice, complete with her hunting bow and quiver, before bringing them with her as she made her way down her rather short list of things she could do to make herself feel…well…not safe. She would never feel safe in a storm no matter where she was, but she could at least feel prepared to face whatever would come next. 

With her travel pack and weapon in tow she moved to one of the smaller rooms in the apartment. Little more than a small storage cupboard or pantry. Every time a storm came through Limsa Lominsa, which was all too common for her liking at certain times of year, this little cupboard was her sanctuary. There was only enough room for her and maybe one other person if needed, though it would be a bit cramped to say the least. She “decorated” it to make it as comfortable as possible. Thick plush hides covered the floor, various pillows were scattered about to make a cobbled together bed of a sort and candles and various other small knick knacks she had collected in her travels were scattered across the two shelves inside. And of course there were blankets. Plenty of them. 

Setting down her pack and weapons by the door to the sanctuary she turned to firmly close the door to the chaotic world outside before settling herself down on the bed of pillows, finally allowing herself a moment to breathe and try to center herself again. She pulled up one of the many blankets, wrapping herself up, before reaching into one of the few storage spots she had in here. The contents of the box were her “emergency supplies” for moments like this. Candied fruits and other long lasting comfort foods she had grown to love since leaving the far east, and then of course there were the few bottles of Airag hidden away. Not quite as good as what was made on the Steppe, but it did the job. 

The din of the storm was muffled in her little safe spot, not enough that she could fully ignore it but enough that she could at least try and focus on something else. Reaching for one of the books Urianger had given her to practice her literacy skills, she settled down amongst the various pillows. All she had to do was wait the storm out, and right now, that was no real hardship.

[laeorinel]

FFXIV Write: Day 2 - Horizon

This turned out a lot bigger than I planned...

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Samara sighed as she leaned forward over the makeshift railing, cobbled together from a bunch of driftwood and rope, of the treehouse perched atop one of the hills overlooking the beach below. It was among one of the first things she built on stepping foot on the island. She needed somewhere that doubled as a lookout post and sanctuary from any inevitable storms, and perhaps the small army of mammet’s running around below. 

This place, which for all intents and purposes was a small piece of paradise, to her had quickly become a prison. A cage partly of her own creation with said small army of mammets being both her jailers and her only company. The days blurred together and time held little meaning. 

Every day it was the same routine: wake up, eat, check on the crops and animals, hunt and gather supplies, eat, sleep. 

As she looked out over the sea, now tinted a pleasant shade of orange and purple from the setting sun, she could not help but feel that the distant horizon was taunting her. It was a constant reminder of her solitude and her being cut off from practically everyone and everything she had known for the last few years. Sure Tataru or some of her other allies would visit once in a few moons, but the sense of normalcy they brought with them was fleeting. They did not want to ruin her hard won peace or interfere with her recovery, or so they claimed.

While it was true her injuries after fighting the Endsinger and Zenos had been severe to say the least and she knew all too well it was nothing short of a miracle that she was still alive, much less able to generally function the same as before, that was the problem. 

Generally. 

Most of her injuries had healed, but those that remained likely never would. And then there were countless other old wounds in a similar state. Pushing oneself to their absolute limits and then somehow going beyond that, absorbing inhumane amounts of aether, falling in battle and then being dragged out of the lifestream when you were a hair's breadth away from being lost in it…it all came with a cost. One she had been able to delay for only so long. 

She was dying. She had been for some time. But it was a slow death. Years, if not decades, have passed at this point from when she first noticed the “problem”. Her aether diminished little by little each passing day, seeping out of the cracks of her injured body and soul. Like a fire slowly being starved of oxygen. 

There was no stopping it, no fixing it. She had accepted long ago she was essentially living on borrowed time. Yet back then she was living out of spite. Now? Now she had people she cared deeply about. People that she loved. People that she assumed love her in turn. And yet, she was alone. A castaway on an island paradise malms away from other signs of civilization. 

It brought rise to a new fear. Samara had grown used to being needed. Every kind of task, whether it big or small, she would do, whether it was given to her by the leader of a nation or some random old woman on the side of the road. Right now? No one needed or asked anything of her. She had heard nothing from any of her friends or allies in weeks, if not months. Then again, why would they contact her? The world continued to move forward with or without her. 

Logically she knew this was how it should be, but logic did little to asway the gnawing feeling growing inside her, that in a world tired of and recovering from conflict, she was no longer relevant or needed. After all, a warrior was only needed in times of war, not peace.

Was she doomed to just live out the remainder of her days, however many or few they may be, alone and stuck in a monotonous loop? Was all that talk of future adventures just that? Idle talk to keep her calm and compliant? She came from a people made up of tribes of warriors. Conflict, survival and earning one's place was all she knew. Peace? Safety? The idea she did not need to be constantly useful? These were novel feelings she struggled to understand. Feelings only magnified by the pangs of loneliness. 

Before her mind had a chance to spiral further she was shaken from her thoughts by a quiet knocking coming from the door to the treehouse. With another weary sigh she hobbled along to the door, the cold winds of the night already causing one of the many injuries to her legs to ache. On the other side of the door was one of the mammet’s from the hideaway, but not the one she was expecting. The courier stood there, looking up at her with a vacant expression before reaching into the satchel and holding out an assortment of letters to her. 

She almost despaired, half expecting them to be orders for items, until she caught sight of familiar handwriting on two of the letters. One was clearly Alphinaud’s script, every penstroke perfectly placed and would look perfectly at home on diplomatic papers or scientific manuscripts, the other, from Alisaie. Her script was still rather refined, but her impetuousness carried through into her brush strokes, each word ending with harsh lines and the occasional splotch of ink. 

The mammet handed over the collection of letters before departing as she studied the rest, and once again she knew on site who they were from. The letter from Y’shtola had writing that seemed almost a little too perfect, with little in the way of emotions coming through, a side effect from being written with a magical quill to transcribe her thoughts. 

The letter from Urianger, despite all his attempts to teach her, was difficult to decipher but easy to identify. His script was as complex and refined as his way of speaking and would probably take her a good hour or so to read and understand. 

G’raha Tia’s looked all too prim and proper from the outside, but she knew the contents of the letter within would start off perfectly polite and calm, then descend into excited scribbles with one or two spelling mistakes every few lines as he let his mind get away from him. 

Estinien’s letter carried the scent of spices from Radz-at-Han and the handwriting was much like her own, a somewhat legible scrawl of someone who spent more time fighting than studying, and the contents of the letter were clearly less than their companions, given he was a man of few words.   

And last but not least, the final letter was clearly from Thancred. The script on his letter appeared unassuming in every way, the type of scrawl that would easily go unnoticed amongst a pile of other letters, but she could spot the faint pen marks of the hidden code he used to denote whether the contents were encrypted or not. He always disguised them by making it look as though the pen or quill used was of a poor quality that did not distribute ink evenly. Once and spy, always a spy. 

She stared down at the letters before pulling them close to her chest as she slowly began to weep. Did the mammet know this was what she needed? Did her friends know on some level she needed…something? Any kind of contact? As quiet sobs wracked her body she wondered if they would ever know what this meant, regardless of the contents. 

It was a lifeline, a connection to a world she thought had abandoned her. A sign that maybe, just maybe, there was still a place for her in this world. 

That her story- their story, was not yet over. 

[laeorinel]

FFXIV Write: Day 1 - Steer

The old Roegadyn looked out over the horizon, his steely gaze watching growing storm clouds in the distance. His worn and weathered hands gripped the helm as he weighed up his options, the weather battered wood rougher than he remembered. Then again, how many moons had it been since he last steered this ship? Between the pirate bands the Maelstrom had not been able to tame and the Garleans, captaining a ship was dangerous work. Many would argue too dangerous, but desperate needs and all that…it wasn’t like his debts were going to pay themselves. Ocean fishing routes had been profitable for a time, but weren’t regular enough to keep up with his bar tab, less than lucky gambling habits and semi-regular visits to the brothels. 

As the seas began to churn, larger and larger waves crashing into the ships hull; he couldn't help but wonder if Llymlaen herself was trying to spite him. Were this a normal cargo run he would have just made for the nearest harbour, even if it meant paying the sometimes exorbitant fees charged by dockmasters around Aldenard, and waited out the storm. But this was not a standard cargo run. Far from it. Below the decks were refugees from the far east. The kind of cargo many a dockmaster frowned upon the closer you got to Limsa Lominsa. 

Transporting people around was no crime technically, so long as they were passengers who could pay their way. But these poor buggers? They had fled with what little worldly possessions they could carry. Others had even less. The clothes they wore amounted to all their “wealth”. 

A wealthy family in Ul’dah had footed the bill for their transport, claiming that they had housing and jobs waiting for them, but he knew better. They were slavers in all but name. The Ala Mhigan’s had been given the same deal by their “betters” in Ul’dah and most of them were left to the mercy of the sands. 

“Still, the mercy of the sands may be preferable to the storm…”

The helm juddered in his grip as the currents shifted and changed with the approaching storm. The old man muttered a bunch of curses under his breath that could curdle milk as his options grew thinner by the moment. There weren’t enough supplies on board for the journey to take any longer. They were cutting it fine as is. Going around the storm wasn’t an option. Going through the storm was an even worse option. Going to port ran the risk of some nosy oddjob rumbling the entire operation which would land him right in the shit with his employers and give him a one way ticket to the fighting pits, but it would keep him, his ship and his cargo intact. Begrudgingly, he knew he would have to try his luck at the nearest port, cross his fingers one of the dockhands was on Lolorito’s payroll and would just look the other way. 

As he barked out orders to his deckhands and steered the ship towards the coastline he made up his mind. All he had to do was get the refugee’s to the mainland, contact his employer and tell them where to find their precious cargo and his job was done. He could hardly be dragged over the coals because a storm mucked up the planned route and drop off point, and if he were, to hells with it all. 

The storm was just one of many things that had gone tits up on this journey. The old man was as superstitious as any other sailor of the high seas. One sign of bad luck was one thing, but repeated strikes of bad luck, no, that was something else. That was the Twelve themselves sending you a message that you were a daft pillock to keep going down the path you’re on. You either get off it, or the Spinner herself would cut your thread short and send you on a one way trip to Thal’s gates. 

The storm moved with a frightening pace, churning up the sea, battering the ship on all sides. He could just about hear the fearful sounds of the refugee’s below above the whistling winds. The one thing he still had in his favour was his experience. He had travelled these coastlines for years and knew them like the back of his hand. He just had to keep the ship steady. Vesper Bay would soon be in sight and the refugees would be someone else's problem. 

“Navigator, I swear te ya. Guide me to the shore and ain’t stepping foot in another pub, gamblin’ den or brothel again. Well…maybe after I’ve had a few drinks to calm me nerves after this…

[laeorinel]

FFXIV Write 2024 Prompt Master List

Week One

Day 1: Steer

Day 2: Horizon

Day 3: Tempest

Day 4:

Day 5:

Day 6:

Day 7:

Week Two

Day 8:

Day 9:

Day 10:

Day 11:

Day 12:

Day 13:

Day 14:

Week Three

Day 15:

Day 16:

Day 17:

Day 18:

Day 19:

Day 20:

Day 21:

Week Four

Day 22:

Day 23:

Day 24:

Day 25:

Day 26:

Day 27:

Day 28:

Week Five

Day 29:

Day 30:

[laeorinel]

Well...I don't quite know where the last year or so has gone, but I'm still here and now I return for FFXIVWRITE once more. Time to see if I can actually do all the prompts this time.

[laeorinel]

Sorry for dropping off the face of the internet after the end of FFXIV Write. Lots of stuff going on irl, and not all of it is bad. Long and short of it, I've made the scary decision to completely change jobs and attempt to start my own business. It'll likely be a little while before I can get it off the ground proper as I'm still figuring things out but I'm planning on selling resin based crafts and other things. Fingers crossed I'll have something more to share about it soon.

I'm currently trying to figure out how many FFXIV themed items is a reasonable amount to stock...

[laeorinel]

Got to do replacement art for Bigby Presents: Glory of the Giants. :)

[laeorinel]

>_> Let's see if this is too much spice for tumblr.

[laeorinel]

Getting back into art after a massive art block has been nice, even if all the AI bs is kind of killing my desire to get back into commission work. I like to believe there is still a market for it and most people want something made by a human rather than regurgitated pixels from a machine, but given how much I'm seeing lately I cannot help but wonder...

But enough of my bitching and complaining. Have a look at my tiefling Bard, Whisper. One of my oldest RP characters finally given a nice little glow up.

[laeorinel]

Getting back into art after a massive art block has been nice, even if all the AI bs is kind of killing my desire to get back into commission work. I like to believe there is still a market for it and most people want something made by a human rather than regurgitated pixels from a machine, but given how much I'm seeing lately I cannot help but wonder...

But enough of my bitching and complaining. Have a look at my tiefling Bard, Whisper. One of my oldest RP characters finally given a nice little glow up.

[laeorinel]

[laeorinel]

FFXIV Write 2023 - Day 29 - Contravention

Today was a real struggle to get this done, but it's done. If I find time in the future I may rewrite this because I'm really not happy with it.

Major spoilers for early Endwalker, since I have a few friends who sitll haven't got to this point.

Thancred sighed with relief as he saw a certain Au ra off in the distance. The last few hours had been frantic, all of the Scions scattering to try and find their wayward warrior. As the hours ticked by and with little to show for their search, it had become harder not to begin to consider the worst-case scenario. He held himself back from charging off to meet her; G'raha Tia and Alisaie could have that honour. He would like to say it was because he wanted to protect the outward look of stoicism and professionalism, but in truth, the feeling of relief had lurched violently towards foreboding.

It all felt wrong. For her to disappear in the blink of an eye, dragged away to Gods knows where by their enemies and then walk back into camp no more than a few hours later with no injuries or looking any worse for wear? All of his training and experience said this was too easy, too convenient; this had to be some enemy ploy and not fate looking kindly on them for once. Every instinct he had was screaming at him. He could not place what caused it exactly, but something about her visage in the distance filled him with dread. And he was not alone in that feeling. With the exception of G'raha tia and Alisaie, the rest of the Scions had not moved an ilm.

"And so our wayward hero returns, and without injury." While Alphinaud sounded relieved, the way he spoke did little to hide his suspicion.

"So that is indeed our friend?" Y'shtola muttered, a hand reaching out towards Urianger to steady herself. For once, she was genuinely blind, her aether sight availing her little in this frigid hellscape.

"Is her visage not reflected in thine eyes?"

"Their aether is…different. Clouded and murky. I can scarce tell the difference between their aether and the surrounding environs."

Thancred and Estinien shared a look before glancing back towards Samara. The two people who knew her best placed her under scrutiny. The feeling of dread settled in Thancred's stomach the more he noticed what was wrong. The way she walked, her mannerisms, the lack of expression on her face as she saw two of her friends approaching and the lack of a visible weapon. None of it added up.

"It's not her." Estinien growled, taking up his spear and setting off towards 'Samara' at full sprint, not waiting to see if anyone else followed or answering any questions.

"G'raha! Alisaie! Get away from them!" Thancred roared as he charged off after Estinien. As he got closer, he saw the twisted grin on the imposter's face, warping the features of the woman he loved. His stomach dropped as he saw a flash of red, a large scythe materialising in the imposter's grasp, the first swing of the wicked sharp blade coming perilously close to catching Alisaie across her chest. They would not be fast enough to stop the second swing. Fate, however, had a different agenda as a sword soared through the air, the point aimed at the imposter's head, forcing them back a few steps away from Alisaie, the edge of the blade catching on skin and scale. It gave them enough time to regroup, each of the Scions readying themselves for a fight, except the imposter's attention was more on the Garlean soldier half crawling towards them.

The bloodied and broken Garlean soldier crawled forward, little more than a walking corpse. It was a miracle he was even standing, much less attempting to fight. Blood seeped from gaps in his armour, open wounds on full display, splintered bones breaking through skin and cloth with limbs twisting in abnormal directions. Nothing but sheer willpower, hate and stubbornness were fueling him now. Laboured breaths broke up their words; every word said clearly a struggle.

"Ze…nos…get…away…"

"Impressive. I did not expect you to arrive so soon."

Thancred's skin crawled as he heard the imposter speak. It was Samara's voice, but the pitch and tone were all wrong.

"You have discarded your weapon. What exactly do you intend to do? Your friends will not strike you down; how do you intend to stop me?"

The soldier reached for something on their belt, a standard issue pistol given to every Garlean soldier. The sickening crunch of bone filled the air as the soldier pointed it to their head.

"I die…you never…get your…battle…your…choice…"

"You expect me to believe you would end it here and now? To leave this world in a flash of gunpowder rather than steel? To leave your mission unfinished just to save them?"

Her answer was to squeeze the trigger. The soldier finally fell to the ground, dead once and for all. The Scions all stood there in stunned silence. They barely noticed the flash of red coming from Samara's body, but none missed the taunting voice of Fandaniel.

"Not to worry, your hero is alive. Returned safe and sound to her body. Thank her for me, will you? Her antics have been most entertaining." said the Ascian as he floated in the air next to Zenos's nightmarish form.

"Monster! How can you not baulk at this contravention of nature?!" Alisaie screamed, already mid cast as aetheric blades formed around her.

"Oh my dear, if only you knew…this entire world is a contravention of nature." muttered Fandaniel as he and Zenos disappeared through a portal before the blades could connect.

[laeorinel]

FFXIV Write 2023 - Day 28 - Blunt

Minor Shadowbringers spoiles.

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"I am going with you." 

Samara sighed, her head falling back in frustration as she looked up at the sky. "We have been over this a dozen times, Alisaie. You and the others are staying here. None of you are fit enough to return to the field, much less venture halfway across the world to a warzone." 

"And I am saying you are wrong. I am perfectly fit and healthy." Alisaie crossed her arms, tapping a foot impatiently on the floor as she watched Samara load the last of her supplies on the airship heading to Doma. 

"And how easily do you tire? How quickly does your aether diminish?" Samara returned to carefully loading up the extra healing supplies Tataru had set aside from the Scion's stock. 

"All irrelevant questions if the enemy is routed before that happens." 

"If you can defeat them. You realise we are not fighting small units of soldiers but an entire Legion, yes? And unlike Doma and Ala Mhigo, reports are that most of the fighting is done in trenches rather than large fortifications." Gods, how many times had Samara said this exact same thing to Alisaie over the last week. Ten times? Twenty?

"All the more reason you should not go alone. Even if you oppose us taking to the frontlines, we can render aid back at the resistance camps. A few more healers could make a difference." Spoke up Alphinaud, sounding a bit less combative than his twin but equally as stubborn. 

"Even you Alphinaud? And here I thought you would be a voice of reason. You would only be useful until you keel over from exhaustion."

"While I understand your concerns, have each of us not proven fit for the task? We have faced far, far worse than Garlean's and walked away alive."

"Says the man who had a literal death wish as part of your grand master plan..." Samara sighed, turning to look at the trio of stubborn Scions. "This has nothing to do with past victories. This has to do with the here and now. None of you are fit to fight a war. Take yourself, G'raha. Your aether may not be as thin as the others, but your body is weak from the time it slumbered away in the Tower." 

"That does not mean we cannot help!" protested Alisaie, her foot stomping on the ground for extra emphasis. 

"That is exactly what it means. I will be blunt. You will be nothing more than a liability should you follow me. Not just to me but to every soldier in Bozja. They need hardened soldiers, not recovering scholars wanting to be the heroes of the story." Samara hated how cold her words sounded, but if there was one thing she knew, it was war and conflict. She had seen too many lost too soon because of stubbornness.

"What of the rest of you?" Samara muttered, glancing towards Thancred, Y'shtola and Urianger, who stood far behind. 

"Tis likely the three of us are of one mind." Said Y'shtola, glancing at her fellow elder Scions. Urianger nodded in return. "We will remain behind and pray for thine safe and swift return." Thancred's gaze lingered on Samara a bit longer before he sighed. 

"Indeed. You already know my thoughts on the matter. I know where I want to be, but what I want matters little in this case." Thancred could understand the twin's desire to help, but he was one of the few who at least had some idea of how bad things were in Bozja. "One wrong move could be perilous. You will have a hard enough time watching out for yourself. You can ill afford to be keeping an eye on anyone else." 

"We do not need to be watched over! We need to be helping her! How can you claim to care for her and not-" Alisaie paused mid-tirade as she heard Samara yell out in frustration. 

"Enough! If the three of you will not listen to reason, I propose a test. You can follow me if you manage to land a single strike on me. However, should I put you in a situation where you would be dead to rights in the field, you are to remain here. Do you accept?"

Her answer came in the form of the three of them taking up their weapons. With a sigh, Samara changed her weapon and armour in a flash of aether, the heavy plate and mail of a warrior changing to a monk's light leather and cloth trappings. 

Thancred raised an eyebrow at that. Was she going to fight them close quarters? He knew she was skilled in hand-to-hand combat, but he was also reasonably sure she was out of practice with her monk training. He only ever saw her fight in this style during spars, never in the field. It would also increase the odds of her getting hit...unless that was her reasoning. If the three of them could not land a hit on Samara at her weakest, what hope did they have on the battlefield? A crude way of showing the twins and G'raha Tia how far they had to go to recover fully, but he could hardly say it would not be effective in humbling them. 

As Alisaie and G'raha tia prepared the first volley of their spells, Samara charged forward and jumped above the trio before bringing her leg down to the ground; large amounts of aether built up in her lower limbs, increasing her strength to a frightening degree. The ground shattered beneath her foot, earth and stone splintering, scattering the trio in different directions; the dust kicked up, obscuring each of their views. Poor Alphinaud did not even have the time to summon his carbuncle. 

Samara shot out from the dust cloud, grabbing Alphinaud by the back of his jacket and forcing him to the ground, the tips of two fingers pointed at a pressure point along his neck. 

"Dead," Samara said before her head shot up, letting the boy go and dodging the oncoming barrage of aetheric blades, weaving between each blade as she pinpointed their direction. 

As Samara broke through the dust, she saw Alisaie close the distance quickly, striking out with her rapier and trying to find a gap in Samara's defences. Samara dodged and weaved each attack, watching with a neutral expression as Alisaie's strikes grew more sluggish, quicker than the young woman would like. Samara jumped back away from Alisaie, watching the young woman breathe heavily and tilt forward uneasily to try and catch her on the retreat. Shaking her head, Samara could see her worst fears confirmed. Alisaie's stamina was nothing compared to what it was on the first, despite her protests. A prolonged battle would only end in one way. Samara charged towards Alisaie again, dropping low to the ground and sweeping the young woman's legs out from underneath her, catching the rapier as it fell from Alisaie's grip and holding the tip to her throat. 

"Dead," Samara said calmly, ignoring the muttered string of curses from the young woman. Setting the rapier down beside its rightful owner, Samara turned back to look for G'raha Tia, the dust finally settling and revealing him standing still across the clearing, his staff replaced by a shining sword and shield. 

The Miqo'te took up a defensive stance as he waited for the oncoming attack. He watched Samara take an attacking stance, aether collecting in her fist before she briefly disappeared from sight, moving at a speed that was hard to track. She stopped right in front of him, her fist stopping just an ilm in front of the shield. Even without contact, the speed and force behind the punch was enough to force G'raha to take a handful of steps back, the shield buckling under her strength before eventually dissipating, more dust, dirt and stone being kicked up all around him. He ungracefully fell to the ground, staring up at the warrior with eyes wide. He knew he was not at full strength yet, but he still hoped he could do something against her. If anything, this proved the divide between their power was so vast...

"Dead," Samara said with finality, turning to look around at the trio on the ground, vaguely aware a crowd had gathered to watch the display, a crowd Thancred was now trying to disperse with limited success. 

"Rest and recover. Bozja will not be the last war we fight or the hardest." Samara said to the three before she turned towards the waiting airship, departing for the East alone. 

[laeorinel]

FFXIV Write 2023 - Day 27 - Sole

Another day of struggle writing done.

Shadowbringers spoilers aplenty.

As Samara lurked around the upper walkways of the Crystarium, she occasionally glanced down at the people below. There was an excited buzz in the air; word had spread of the night sky returning to yet another area of Norvrandt. It had been a while since she had seen The Wandering Stairs so busy. Drinks flowed freely, and she would not be surprised if the partying continued all through the night. She would spot her fellow Scions every so often, darting through the crowds to either get their own drinks and join in with the revelry or moving onto somewhere else.

She spotted Ryne off to the side with Thancred. While it was hard to make out all too much from the distance from what she could tell from their body language, both of them were at peace and, for once, looked comfortable in each other's company. She did not miss, however, the occasional glance from one or both of them in her direction.

A part of her wanted to join them, but it was safer for her to keep a distance. She did not want to worry them further, especially now that hiding the changes the Light was causing was becoming more complicated. She knew Ryne would offer to share the burden of being the host to the Lightwardens aether. She would not let that happen.

No, this was how it had to be. She had the sole responsibility of keeping the Light at bay. She would not condemn the young woman who had only just carved out a name and place for herself to this fate. Nor would she condemn the man so dear to her to lose another one he loved. If her life was the price that needed to be paid to save this world from destruction, then so be it, but that did not mean they needed to see every moment of her decline.

The physical changes were becoming harder to disguise. Her hair was becoming more brittle and paler as the days went on. At first, it was just a few stray hairs tinged a horrid pale bright yellow; now, most of her hair was tinted white at the root. She could easily cover it up with various dyes, but the changes to her eyes and scales were harder to conceal. She doubted the others had not noticed the changes in her attire, with every shred of scale and skin hidden beneath cloth, leather and metal. Her eyes she could do little about.

Still, the external changes paled in comparison to the ones happening inside. She was partly keeping herself separate from everyone else because she could feel herself coming undone at the seams. Her emotions were harder to keep in check, and her already tempestuous anger was always a hair's breadth away from being unleashed on anyone for even the most minor of things. Then there was the paranoia. The First had changed her friends; how could it not? Regardless, she still trusted them. Or did. Now, there were moments when she questioned their motives and wondered if they were friend or foe. On more than one occasion, she had found herself reaching for a weapon, ready and willing to fight any or all of them. It was a feral state of mind she had not felt in years, and to say it unnerved her was an understatement.

Then there was the hunger. She would need to go out hunting again soon. It was easier to hide the increase in her appetite that way, though she imagined sooner or later someone would come across the string of animal corpses felled across Lakeland or catch her mid-hunt or feast. That is assuming none were aware already. She knew the Exarch had a means of keeping an eye on her. Not to mention, a certain ghost was never too far away.

"Yet again, I find you alone. Want some company?" as if one cue said ghost made his appearance. Ardbert made his way over to Samara, taking his place by her side at the railing.

"Are you saying that more for my sake or yours?" Samara did not take her eyes off the crowds below as she spoke.

"Does it matter? How are you feeling? You're looking a little pale."

Samara sighed, leaning heavily against the railing and staring vaguely toward Thancred and Ryne. "Before, when I thought of the Light, I thought of the sun, a force that nourishes life but could also snuff it out in an instant of fire and flame. Compassion and fury in equal measure. I was wrong. It is cold and unyielding. I feel like I am in the middle of a snowstorm, the cold robbing me of my senses with each passing moment until nothing is left but the still of winter."

"Not good then. I assume you know what is happening?"

"That I am becoming a Sin eater, or that I am dying?" Samara idly picked at a patch of off-colour scales. She tried to not dwell on it, even if they were starting to turn a discomforting shade of gold.

The question went unanswered, with Ardbert quickly changing the topic. "What will you do?"

"Keep fighting for as long as I can. Pray whatever scheme the Exarch has in mind works, and if not…take matters into my own hands."

"What the hells does that mean?"

"If I fall to the Light, both this world and the Source are doomed to calamity. However, the calamity the Ascians wish to bring about can only happen if I, or something harbouring this damn Light, exists."

"So you would return to the Source before you turn. You realise that could cause what is happening here to repeat there. The aether would pass onto another, and then two worlds would be full of Sin eaters."

"Unless the aether was destroyed or absorbed in a single moment." her gaze turned up to the night sky. She knew it was not Nhamma up in the inky black sky, but it was a comfort all the same.

"On the Source, the land I hail from is known as the Azim Steppe. There is a sacred place up in the mountains known as the House of the Crooked Coin. Inside, you can find a fragment of the Dusk Mother, Nhamma, one of my people's deities. People from Tribes all over the steppe travel there when…when everything becomes too much. We throw ourselves at Mother Nhamma's mercy. Literally. Everything a person is, was, or could ever be is destroyed."

"That's your plan? Suicide?"

"What other choice is there? I either live and am freed of this burden or become the doom of this world and everyone on it. I refuse to let the latter happen. Not if I have a way of stopping it."

"Except you don't! You have no way of knowing if your plan will work."

"It is better than the alternative. What sounds better? Guaranteed destruction or the faint hope of averting it? I'm dead either way."

"I just don't want to take everyone down with me…"

[laeorinel]

FFXIV Write 2023 - Day 26 - Last

Today was a struggle, not going to lie. The creative juices were not flowing at all and the brain fog was real. Not exactly happy with this but it is done at least.

Endwalker spoilers and a bit of wolcred to save my sanity

Thancred sighed as he counted the last of his cartridges. All of his preparations were complete. He could do nothing more, even if he still had that nagging sensation of forgetting or overlooking something. Even he, the one who tended to prepare for and assume the worst, could not prepare for all eventualities. None of them knew what awaited them at the edge of creation or what horrors the source of the Final Days would unleash on them. All they could do was wait until the time for their departure came. The rest of the Scions were finishing the last of their preparations and tending to matters should the worst come to pass. He was aware of what most of them were up to, at least.

The twins were with their parents, all grievances pushed aside, if only for tonight. Tonight, the Leveilleurs could be a typical family, and the twins could be children once more instead of the young adults their adventures forced them to be.

Urianger was spending as much time as he could with Moenbryda's family, likely regaling them with stories of his and Moenbryda's antics in their youth and the adventures he had been on since their last meeting.

If he knew Y'shtola as well as he thought, she would not be found in Sharlayan tonight. She would have made her way to Gridania briefly to see her Sister before venturing onto the Dravanian Hinterlands at her earliest convenience. It was only fitting she spent time with the woman who practically raised her.

He last saw G'raha Tia with Krile at the Baldesion Annex. From little he had overheard of their conversation, the Miqo'te had made some requests of the woman. One day, if Sharlayan found a means to travel to the First to deliver a message to Lyna if he could not do so himself. What else the man intended to do with the night was a mystery.

He had spotted Estinien at the docks earlier, speaking with Lucia briefly and handing over a few letters. He could only assume their contents, but whatever was said between the pair ended with Lucia saluting him before returning with the rest of the Ishgardians.

The one he had little idea about was Samara. He had not caught sight of her all day, yet given how easy it was for her to traverse great distances with her plentiful aether, she could be anywhere between Sharlayan and the farthest reaches of Othard. Maybe she had returned to the Steppe to sort matters out among the tribes in the event she-…no, he was not going to entertain that thought. Out of all of them, she would return from this alive. He would make certain of it.

Shaking his head, he admittedly felt a bit lost now. While there were old friends and mentors he could try and see before dawn, he had already said what needed to be said to them. There were only a handful of people or places he would wish to visit now, but the lack of time or means ruled them out. Gods, what he would not give to be able to see Ryne just once more. With little else to do and the knowledge sleep would not come to him easily, he let his feet guide him through the streets of Sharlayan, eventually leading him to one of his old haunts. A small outcropping atop the hills overlooking the bay. He would always come here when he needed time away from the stifling halls of learning in the city below. Few knew of it, and fewer still could reach it, yet despite that, he should not have been surprised that a certain warrior found her way there.

She cut a lonely figure overlooking the bay, legs stretched out before her as her gaze turned towards the moonlight sky. Samara gave no indication that she noticed his approach, but he did not try to hide himself as he moved over to sit next to her. As he sat down, he saw her hand reach out to take his own and intertwine their fingers. That single gesture quietened his mind. Thinking back, it was moments like this that made him fall in love with her long before he dared acknowledge it. Moments where they just sat in comfortable silence, not expecting or wanting anything from each other. Moments where they were not their titles or had to put on a show to fit in.

He had long earned his place in Sharlayan, that he would not deny, but even after earning the marks on his neck, he never felt as though he truly belonged. While he could talk, act, and even debate just as well as any native Sharlayan, that little voice in the back of his head would always remind him that he was little more than a Lominsan wharf rat that was granted a new life in a twist of fate and charity. He had to keep earning his place. So the mask of the ever-dutiful workaholic Archon fell into place as easily as breathing, much like Samara's own mask of being the stoic and unbreakable warrior of light.

Both wore these masks to blend in among people they did not truly belong to. Now, though, even if he did not dare say it, they belonged to each other. She never cared about what mask he wore, nor did he care about hers. She accepted him in whatever way he presented himself, flaws and all, even after his monumental mistakes.

As he lifted her hand to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on the scarred scales, he knew there was nowhere else on Eitherys he would rather be. What better way could he spend what was potentially his last night in this world than in the company of the one person who accepted him without exception?

[laeorinel]

Today is one of those days where I hate everything I'm writing. I've tried rewriting todays prompt 3 times and I don't like any of it.

[laeorinel]

the random notes not showing up properly is so scary. if we can’t trust the activity feed who can we trust at all. how many mutuals have i ignored. how many silent cries have been lost to the abyss