#Aymeric can deal with war and dragons

[stars-and-clouds]

Okay guys but think about Aymeric for a minute.

He is adopted into a family of nobles when he comes from, possibly, a low born mother who was possibly forced into sleeping with a powerful man like Thordan. Had to keep quiet about it and possibly lose her son right after giving birth. Aymeric grew up hearing rumours about being a bastard, about not deserving his life, about how lucky he is, how he was probably a mistake.

And now he is the only one alive to carry on the Borel name, becomes the lord commander of the temple knights at a very young age, then lord speaker of Ishgard, slayer of Fafnir, unifier of dragons and men after a thousand year of war. All this while he grows up hearing he will never be good enough. Imagine how insecure that must make him. Having achieved so much will not make him think "wow, I really am amazing. Sure showed them!" It will just stress him out even more, thinking he can't do it, he isn't capable enough to carry these responsiblities out, not deserving enough to. In fact, idk if we've ever seen him being proud of himself or even happy? Doesn't he always want to jump to the next task? He is too humble for someone in his position, sometimes it's like he doesn't believe he is actually as good as he is said to be.

I think this is shown by his decision to give up his position as lord commander as soon as they finish dealing with Nidhogg. Like, he will do his duty and stop. Because he doesn't think he can do it anymore. He thinks he is not important enough so he goes to confront his father by himself in the lion's den itself, so to speak. Practically kills his father, almost kills his best friend to do his duty, brings about peace and much needed change and gets stabbed for it. How shit must that make him feel about himself?

Aymeric is so good at being a well spoken, smooth politician, we forget to see how broken he must really be inside and he is all alone. Even Lucia isn't with him anymore, having to stay at Garlemald.

The way his eyes light up every time he sees the warrior of light, calling them 'my friend,' every second sentence, as if pleading to be called the same. Writing to Estinien whenever he can, having a deep wanderlust and adventurous spirit but being unable to fulfil it. He is so much like G'raha in this sense but unlike him, Aymeric hasn't gotten his happy ending yet.

The man is so alone but so dutiful. So insecure but so good at hiding it. He craves connection but his duty forces him to be unable to make it. I cannot imagine how hard he has it.

He needs hugs 😭

[worldformula]

complicated relationship with Aymeric you say 👀 I would love to hear about it

also do you have a blank version or link to the blank version of that “characters who are just like my WOL fr” chart it intrigues ms greatly. I love that it’s specific about what exactly the inspiration from the characters is.

Here’s a link to the .psd because the framing layers makes it a bit hard to use as a regular png. Go nuts!

As for Aymeric…

Long story short, they never fostered an actual real relationship before just getting in the nitty gritty of intimacy because it is my religious belief that Aymeric is deeply repressed like a Catholic maiden and Utushama kept just leaving for MSQ immediately the day after they’d fool around. Utushama assumed they were on the same page (this wouldn’t work because they have conflicting responsibilities) (this is also kind of an excuse, he’s starting to develop a pattern of starting something, ditching ASAP, and then using MSQ as a noble excuse) but they weren’t really. I love to pretend Lucia is mad at him for this because it made Endwalker kind of funny. Usual spoiler warning for everything ahead!

Short story long, after the Dragonsong War’s end, they kept things entirely professional including their dinner and dealing w the aftermath of it all but were slowly (and I mean SLOWLY) building a tension between them like it was a Victorian period drama. Like, a show of ankle would give Aymeric a heart attack at this point. So they had two days of building up to this that no one in the world could’ve possibly guessed was any kind of build up to anything followed by one night of Halone-dishonoring acts (initiated by Utushama because why not. Why not hit and run the beautiful President of Dragon Catholics City after you saved them all. Especially after increasingly escalating moments of barely repressed interest). And immediately after, without explanation or any warning, Utushama left for MSQ, with the assumption that they were both in agreement that they couldn’t have an actual relationship because one of them loves their country more than anything else in the world and the other is a traveling adventurer. He didn’t say this because it was so obvious to him but Aymeric was obviously left a little confused and feeling slightly abandoned but bigger things at stake, y’know.

And then they meet again when Ala Mhigo is liberated because all the Eorzean Alliance leaders are there and Utushama is feeling very disoriented and bad because Zenos just killed himself in front of him, denying him of any closure to the distress he’s been feeling for all of Stormblood. And they are once again very professional as if they hadn’t explored each other’s bodies that one time. Aymeric invites him to dinner again and when the subject of trying to define their relationship is brought up, Utushama deflects by hitting him point-blank with the “ok, do you want to do that again” and Aymeric is flustered enough by this that despite being a very savvy politician, the Catholic maiden part of him overrides the many slightly orange flags. Once again, Utushama slips away without warning immediately after.

They don’t speak again until right after the Ghimlyt Dark, wherein canon provided me a lovely moment of quiet between the two of them. Utushama, being injured, is then unable to escape from this conversation that Aymeric begins, wherein Aymeric himself first confesses to hoping to be something more serious, to which Utushama answers in a manner that is between bafflement and regret that they weren’t ever going to be a thing (because again, he thought they were on the same page about this). Aymeric is sad but can see the logic in this and admits that Utushama deserves someone who cares more about him than their political responsibilities, who could and would follow him to the ends of the earth. (There is no reason for him to be so self-deprecating on the matter because it’s not as if he were the one at fault for this, but Utushama just has a way of making people feel bad for wanting reasonable things from him. It’s kind of cruel of him but he also is entirely unaware that he’s doing this.) This is a fun bit of foreshadowing for me personally because this could mean anyone but should the monkey’s paw curl, that sure does describe a certain horrible prince he despises. But after accidentally doing all that to Aymeric, maybe he does deserve to be tormented. Just a little. I’ve been following a sort of narrative path wherein anyone who likes Utushama for being a hero figure can’t actually get with him for good because they’re enabling his bad habits and it’s going to end badly.

Anyway, all this made the Endwalker casting quests very fun because they just kind of josh around lightly and even reference their old fling without it being a whole thing and it feels like the weight of whatever they were doing is off Aymeric now so he’s able to be confident and normal again. If they ever fool around again post-Endwalker, it’s noticeably different because Aymeric has moved past the whole blushing maiden for the hero role. Utushama is admittedly kind of. Strangely sad to see him move past him but by then knows that it was probably for the best. It’s just hard for him to even metaphorically feel like he’s the one being left behind. And Lucia is no longer mad at him but it’s really funny to let him keep thinking she is!

So yeah, his relationship with Aymeric is kind of tangled and convoluted and despite indulging once or twice, he doesn’t actually seem to like talking about it beyond whatever’s professional because he’s just very private. I’ve no idea what the general consensus is on Aymeric and Estinien’s relationship but I imagine it was much more straightforward than this. Utushama inadvertently projects and assumes it was just as complicated based on the way Estinien talks about Aymeric in MSQ tidbits but I think it’s funnier if it was actually relatively tame and Estinien is just being dramatic.

[that1nkyone]

1nky is normal about Magical DPS Role Quests Part II.

that's azys la isn't it

what kinda BS are you guys doing there

COOL GREAT AMAZING

COOL COOL COOL

I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt with dealing with a changing Ishgard and all the self-doubt and crisis of faith that came with it BUT NO YOU WERE LIKE 'HEY THORDAN ABSOLUTELY HAD THE RIGHT IDEA' LET'S MAKE A GOD THAT'S SO AWESOME'

OH THEY'RE JUST STRAIGHT UP TRYING TO SUMMON THEM BACK GREAT AWESOME COOL

WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU FIND THIS POOR BASTARD

oh he's an allagan clone...

... wait did they just summon back the original ser vaindreau is that what's happening

Vartinoix left while I was in the throes of the Echo, didn't he?

YEP

Oh, he's still here! Maybe we can just -

fuck

okay he didn't get the One Woman Wail, he got the 'fuck we're gonna have a Blasphemy onscreen soon' theme.

This is a Very Bad Day for Everyone Involved. Artoirel looks real shaken, here. ) :

yes please stay with Clem, he's dealing with the loss of who he thought would be a good figurehead of the church. Again.

And Aymeric... hasn't said anything since he struck Vartinoix down.

...

Atta boy, Clem.

... Aymeric isn't doing well, is he?

Let's see what we can do to get more information about the summoning. I like how they reference the fact that summoning Thordan and the Knights Twelve failed because of a lack of aether - no Nidhogg Eyes, and no Warring Triad. But they did summon a champion of sorts - and I'm betting they summoned one of the original Knights Twelve.

Also, talking to the other summoners resulted in them panicking and Turning! let's, uh, try another method to figuring out more about this clone.

Onwards! To Camp Dragon... head...

;_;

So we got some clues - it looks like there was a low-flying airship straight before Vaindreau was found. In order to find any sign, we gotta spread out and search by air -

-YE S.

YEYEYEYEYEYEAH

YEYEYEYEYEYEYEAHHH

(Look Ash'li's gotta find the Little Things to keep him motivated and going flying on chocobos with a good friend is Up There for him)

... oh.

... hey there, buddy. ) :

Oop, time for the Echo. Gimme a sec, Aymeric.

... the dude didn't even know who or what he was. The entirety of the Knights Twelve were intended to be brought forth through summoning.

... at least one name seemed to stick out.

Yeah, the fact that the Archbishop and Knights Twelve are dead isn't gonna be welcome news to this guy -

Ah. Well.

Here we are, then.

Hup, sorry! What've I missed?

Ah.

Okay.

(to be continued)

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

Prompt #26: Last

Artoiel knew that he should probably protest. Plead. And if all else failed--he could call for his men, he could call for the anti-magic irons. A Dominant of Halone had never left Ishgard, never left Corethas before. When word got out, there would be actual rioting in the city streets...

But after the events of the last week, Artoiel couldn't blame Augustine and Mathye for packing their things. Couldn't blame them for wanting to seek freedom. Even with Nidhogg's shade defeated, and the dragon-broods of Dravania willing to try peace...there were still those in Ishgard who just would not let things be. Peace in his home was not going to be bought by spoken word as was Aymeric's wish, but with blood and painful lessons.

"Where will you go?" He asked. Augustine and Mathye shared a look, with Mathye reaching into a pocket and holding up a folded piece of paper.

"This got delivered via post-moogle last night." He said. "A formal invitation for us to join the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Which we're accepting."

"Ishgard sending her Dominants to aid in the security of the realm will buy the Lord High Commander a great deal of political capital." Augustine continued. "The Archbishop aside...van Baelsar came too close to his goal. The Ultima Weapon would have destroyed the armies of Limsa, U'ldah and Gridania."

"Not to mention that little shite Teledji's scheming would have put all three nations under his thumb faster." Mathye added. "We were next on the list." Artoiel exhaled, nodding.

"War with the Empire, then?" He asked. "Where?"

"Don't know yet. Sebastian and Reinhardt's Eikons are whispering for Gyr Albania to be watched, though." Augustine frowned, remembering the letter Reinhardt had sent.

The Ala Mhigan refugees have been mobilizing. They're gathering around a leader who calls themselves the Silver Griffin. They've even sent out Eikon-hunters after us--but you can guess how well that's been going over.

"Gyr Albania." Artoiel mused. "I heard that the crown prince of Garlemald took Gaius's place as viceroy. Send word of what you find, will you?" At the surprised looks on the Bishop brothers' faces, the new Count of House Fortemps chuckled.

"I'm not above shamelessly using any advantage I can possibly get to help vault the House into a better position to offer you--and the Scions support." He said.

[herohikara-wol]

FFXIV Write 2k23 - Day 8

Shed - Dravanian AU, direct sequel to Barbarous

“There’s really no need-” Haurchefant’s tail lifted from Hero’s hands as the Dravanian protested. “I wouldn’t make you deal with my scales, it must seem unsightly to you.”

The viera rolled his eyes softly, “Haurchefant I was adopted by Dravanians. I grew up here in Ishgard. I have like a dozen siblings who are of all different ages and have all gone through molting before- I’ve helped some of them with it even.” He snorted, “honestly, acting like I’ve never touched dead scales before.”

“Well it’s a sensitive topic to some. I didn’t want to turn you off, I wanted tonight to be special. You’ve been gone for so long, my dulcet. Tonight was supposed to be supper and spoiling you and taking you back to my nest to try to have a clutch of my own with you.”

“Well you can still do all those things, I’m here until Aymeric’s guard finishes assessing if Gridania wants war or if the Primal attack was an accident.” It could have just been an accident, it’s not like Nophica herself had shown up to try to turn him into a bloody tree or some shite. Whatever he’d fought didn’t feel like a proper primal either, it was too- dead? No, it was alive, but it felt empty. Like all the energy animating it was somehow inert.

Papalymo mentioned something about pre-Gridanian history, the war of the magi, and was currently researching the Gelmorran and Amdapori ruins for answers. Apparently the primal-not-primal had looked similar to depictions of the stone guardians from the war, but if Gridania was worried about offending the Elementals, that should be the last thing they resorted to. Right? The Flood had traumatized the forest spirits so badly that they refused to allow all but a select few to use white magic in the first place.

So whoever animated that statue was risking retribution from the Elementals. Which would explain why they were agitated and panicked when Hero showed up in the grove in the first place. Right now the only answer he could come up with was someone had a Paragon guiding them, puppeting their moves from the shadows, and Kan-E-Senna thought it was the dragons threatening her people and not the Ascians.

Hero’s mind was working so quickly to try to piece together the puzzle that he barely noticed his hands moving at all. Haurchefant had long melted under the fingers gently massaging lotions and oils into his tail and back to loosen and soften the dead scales to make them easier to remove. He was practically purring his adoration for the massage, and Hero wasn’t hearing a single word of praise.

It wasn’t until Haurchefant flipped over to grab him by the wrist that Hero even realized he’d already finished the job. “Dearheart, are you alright? You’ve been silent this whole time.”

“Sorry, luv.” Hero smiled weakly at him to hide the worry bubbling in his breast. “I was just thinking about work.”

“Thinking about the looming specter of war more like.” The taller man huffed a bit, “You started using the brush over an area you’d already gotten. I will admit, it is impressive what you’re capable of without thinking about it though. My back feels better than it has in ages.” He glanced at the small pile of dead scales and skin beside Hero with a grimace. “I still wish you hadn’t had to deal with it on my behalf.”

Hero shook his head and smiled at the other, “I grew up here, if you think my stomach is so weak I can’t help you with some basic grooming you’re out of your mind. Remember, a dozen siblings? Why do you think I learned how to be so gentle with it? I’d help my fathers with the younger ones, papa taught me how to do it so they wouldn’t cry about how much it hurt. Father’s a little more on the side of speed over comfort but you know how he can be.”

“Ser Charibert isn't exactly the man I would think of when I was considering comforts beyond tea and a warm fire. No offense but your parents are bloody terrifying on a good day, it’s a wonder you’re so sweet and gentle.” He was flinching as he spoke, only to smile a bit when Hero found himself laughing.

“You’re their future son in-law, of course they’re terrifying to you. They’re trying to make sure you’ll treat me right, I am their most fragile child after all.” Not that either of his parents would call him that to his face. His cousin Grinnaux had though.

Once.

Hero still had one of Grinn’s teeth on a necklace to remind his cousin why he wasn’t as fragile or soft as he looked. Like any Dzemael, Grinn seemed to respect Hero more for having the balls to lay him flat on his arse instead of chickening out or backing down. “Alright, help me clean this mess up and we can get dinner. Maybe one of those hand-pies they sell in the market?”

“I was thinking something a little more sit-down and classy. Hopefully they’ll let us in the door, usually only proper house members dine there and-” Hero put a hand to Haurchefant’s chest and smiled at him.

“If they don’t, I will be just as happy to eat a hand-pie and lean against you while you wrap your wing around me. I don’t care about the expense, I care about spending time with you.”

“Of course.” Haurchefant leaned down to take the hand from his chest, still covered in lotion and oils, and kissed the top of it regardless. “Of course, my dulcet. As you wish.”

[unbloomingmoonflower]

idle musings.

Ariadne did not fear dragons. In fact, the Horde was at the very bottom of things that the halfling would be afraid of.

Yet Aymeric and Estinien, her longtime friends and comrades, have even questioned the extent of her fear. Inquired and pondered as to how she could be face-to-face with massive fangs and claws of the wyrms and not once experience the trembling of fear.

“Other people tend to be the most frightening,” she had answered them once, over a shared pint of Ishgardian ale at the tavern once they had returned safely from their aptly named suicide mission. “Have you seen how easily those with power or wealth treat their lessers?” Ah, how she hated that word.

When Aymeric and Estinien did not answer her with words, their silence all but confirmed that they have, indeed, noticed such things. It only served to have Ariadne continue. “See how easy some noble families cast out their own children to save face with proper society? And yet, their little secrets being exposed is all it will take to undo them and their frivolous reputation.”

“It appears you have a rather personal experience with such, haven’t you?” Estinien had asked, none too gently. It wasn’t like the man, training to succeed the Azure Dragoon at the time, to ever ask with a soft voice. 

“Absolutely,” answered Ariadne with just as much bluntness one would expect of a woman with no patience for guile. “My father’s own family cast him out because he dared to fall in love with a “common woman” like my mother, may she rest in peace. He dared to take responsibility for the child he sired out of wedlock and we were tossed to the cold. Yet there are those in Ishgard who look down on illegitimate children as if we were the plague, regardless of how our circumstances are.”

Draining the dregs of her ale, Ariadne’s full lips had curled into a wry smile. “Yes, gentlemen. Other people frighten me far more than any dragon and its brood. I much rather stake my life every waking moment fighting them than to deal with the honeyed words of those who will sooner tear down their lessers.”

“Perhaps that can change,” Aymeric had declared, with a burning passion in his sapphire eyes. “Perhaps we can take Ishgard into a new tomorrow. Where no such lines of nobility and the impoverished exist.”

Lofty ideal, Ariadne remembered thinking, drinking down a tankard of ale even now. It had been years since then, years since she had began serving as a Temple Knight. She rose through the ranks just as well as her comrades, her brothers, serving under Aymeric as he took the position of Lord Commander when all odds were against him due to the very stigma Ariadne had seen all of her life. Seeing his passions take him so far made the halfling proud of her friend, willing to put her life in his hands. 

Estinien’s own ideals were steeped in revenge and blood, wanting nothing more than for Nidhogg to suffer. He rose to succeed Alberic, becoming the Azure Dragoon and channeling his inner dragon. Though she wondered if Estinien loathed the term. She never asked, with him never being the loquacious type. It took several pints just to get him to unveil that Nidhogg had destroyed his home, killed his family, and that he swore revenge. 

Ariadne was quite willing to die for them and had come close during the finale of Dragonsong War. She remembered it well. How could she forget? She was not present when Nidhogg had taken possession of Estinien, using his body as though it were a simple mammet. She did, however, bear witness to it during the peace conference with Vidofnir; at how Estinien’s body took aim to the wyrm and Aymeric making the choice to loose and arrow at their dearest friend.

When the crescendo of the war was upon them, Ariadne had stood with the famed Warrior of Light and their fellow Scions, ready to fight for her nation and her dearly beloved comrades. Nidhogg had dealt her a devastating wound through her abdomen that it was nothing short of miraculous that Ariadne had even survived. 

It was certainly something Estinien had carried guilt over; he had apologized to Ariadne in that brusque way of his while renouncing his title as the Azure Dragoon. Aymeric had chided Ariadne for moving so soon to see the inert, recovering Estinien. “You’ll reopen your wound.”

“My wound will heal. The Fury knows I have more scars than I know what to do with.”

Her words must have worried them, even though it was unspoken. Aymeric and Estinien knew Ariadne best, knew what she was like. She wondered why Aymeric seemed so keen to have her as some sort of acting liason as Lucia did. Even Lucia noticed such. “Lord Aymeric cares for you deeply, as though were the younger sister he’s never had,” she had noted once to Ariadne in private conversation. “He simply doesn’t want to see you buried so young. I am sure Estinien feels the same.”

Exhaling a sigh, Ariadne pushed rogue strands of her short hair from her face, the loose fringes framing over her left eye. Tankard empty, she reached into her coffer to drop some gil onto the counter with a respectful nod toward the tavernkeep. She was never a woman to wear out her welcome. 

The snow barely crunched beneath her sabatons as she left the Forgotten Knight. The chill bit at her exposed skin, yet so accustomed to her home climate was she that it hardly counted as a bother. Crimson eyes took in the softly falling snow, at the remains of Ishgard being rebuilt brick by brick by Her people. 

Ariadne did not fear dragons. She did fear other people, at how readily they turn their fangs on one another. 

Yet she also feared that such a peaceful calm after a storm was not meant to last. 

Keeping her troubled thoughts locked within the confines of her heart, Ariadne simply made her way home to where her father awaited. 

[ladyseychelles]

A Year of Dragons

(For the ffxiv swap)

It had certainly been a hell of a year.

Vitya had been forced to step up as a hero for the Eorzean people. It was tiring work and he didn't always feel he was suited for it. But it was rewarding in its own way. Because of him and the Scions Ishgard was at peace for the first time in centuries.

He tossed a blanket over Alphinuad's sleeping form. The poor kid hadn't quite managed to stay awake until the new years bells rang. Oh well. He was yet young. There were plenty of new years bells ahead of him. Vitya had certainly seen the youngster mature over the last year. The events of the Bloody banquet had forced him to swallow his pride, which allowed him to grow as a diplomat

Tataru was also starting to doze off. The miniature form of the mighty Misgardsommer had curled up next to her and she clearly didn't want to disturb him, and the warmth of the room lured her to sleep. She deserved a good rest. Her skills may have been described as soft, but they were essential to the Scions.

The count and his heir were engaged in hushed whispering next to the fireplace. Vitya wanted to say something to them, but he couldn't think of the words. Their family had suffered an unimaginable loss. Hauchefant would be dearly missed, both in here and among the men he commanded.

Yshtola and Urianger had chosen to stay in the rising stones, both needing to adjust to massive changes in their lives. Emmanellian had chosen to go out partying with some of his highborn companions. The Ironworks crew were in the midst of some sort of project. Likewise, Aymeric and Lucia were attached to their desk, dealing with the end of the war. Hilda had been invited, but turned it down, chosing to spead the night in the Brume. And of course, neither Ysalye nor Estiein were physically able to make it at all

That just left Charm

He found her sitting outside on the gazebo looking of into the distance, in the direction of Azys La. A half empty wine bottle was open at her side.

“I heard that alcohol can make you colder.” Vitya said to the silence. “Something about it slowing down your inner circuitry.”

“Circulation.” Charm corrected. She took a swig of her drink. “Can you believe its only been a year since we came to Ishgard?”

Vitya shrugged. “Just goes to show what can happen in a year I suppose

Charm let out a small sad laugh. “I'm never going to see this place the same way again. And Ysayle...I'm going to miss her so much

“I'd drink to her memory, but I'm afraid I left my cup indoors” Vitya paused. “I'm going out to Dravainia tomorrow to meet with Vidonifer and the rest of Midgards kin. Would you like to come with me?”

Charm took a moment to consider his offer. “Sure. It would be good for me to get out of my own head for a bit. Besides, whats a couple more dragons in a year full of them. “ She got up and picked up her bottle. “Come on. We should go off and make a proper toast.”

The new years bells started to ring as they made their way inside

[sezja]

bc I forgot yesterday; gimme Nerise on Haurchefant, Nidhogg, Aymeric, and Esti. and a wild card you choose <3

Ask game: send an in game characters name to see how someones WoL/OC feels about them

Haurchefant: By necessity, Nerise largely avoids most of the ARR Coerthas arc - Eyrisunn handles most of it, otherwise it'd be hard to avoid accusations of heresy - so she doesn't properly meet Haurchefant until they're preparing to take shelter in Ishgard. Fortunately, because Nerise's story is an Everyone Lives AU, she gets the chance to get to know him better as time goes on; she likes him a great deal. She admires his optimism and enthusiasm in the face of grave odds, and appreciates that he's more open-minded than most Ishgardians. He is one of the first people to learn that she travels with a wyvern (even if it's a while before he meets the wyvern in question).

Nidhogg: Even in her own time, Nidhogg mistrusted and disliked mankind, preferring to keep to himself and the company of his fellow dragons. She seldom saw him, and only ever at a distance; it was well-known that men (and those dragons who chose to bond with them) troubled Nidhogg at their own peril. Still, it's painful to Nerise to see what he's become in this age; a creature so consumed with rage and vengeance that it corrupts everything around him. He doesn't remember her, and maybe that's for the best.

Aymeric: They have something of a rocky start, as you might imagine. Nerise is not politics-savvy, and the first few meetings with Aymeric are intensely political - Nerise walks out on a meeting or two, leaving Alphinaud and Eyrisunn to deal with it. By the time they're rescuing Aymeric from his ill-fated venture at the Vault, however, she's at least begun to warm to him; she sees the difficult path he's walked, and she can respect him for it. Particularly because he doesn't outright accuse her of heresy when a wyvern is part of the rescue party.

Estinien: Speaking of rocky starts. Nerise is a DRG, and the DRG questline is largely canon for her - so she and Estinien start off very much at odds, and he does know her for a 'heretic,' as Sohl Amh aids her. She insists that the term dragoon initially referred to warriors who fought on dragonback, which goes over about as well as you'd imagine. Eventually she manages to persuade Estinien that Sohl Amh is actually a dragon from well outside of Coerthas, and not at all of Nidhogg's brood, nor are they interested in joining in Nidhogg's war (she discloses the truth later). It's Estinien's word, in part, that sways Aymeric's opinion in her favor. Eventually Nerise and Estinien settle into being bickering siblings. There are few people Nerise trusts more.

Sanson and Guydelot: Because of course. Nerise thinks Sanson's a fussy little prig, and Guydelot's an arrogant idiot, at first. It's an impression that sticks with her for most of their travels through Coerthas and Dravania - she's reluctant to keep dealing with the two of them, especially as she begins to notice something happening between them. It reminds her uncomfortably of her own inability to express how she felt about Milla. Little by little, though (around the Churning Mists, ironically, when her own feelings are a mess), she warms to them, and begins checking in on the two of them more and more often. They're among her closest friends outside of the Scions - though she maintains a friendly rivalry with Guydelot.

[mneiai]

Fic I Am Currently Working On/Plan to Continue Working On Soonish

The following is a list of the fic that I remembered to list that I am currently working on, planning on working on, or hoping to work on. A fic that does not appear here is not necessarily abandoned, but I cycle in and out of fandoms and back again with a few years between sometimes. I've also been somewhat distracted recently, so there's been a slow down in my fanfic posting.

Any new fic is posted on Tumblr, sometimes only posted on Tumblr. For older fics, I'm still working on adding them/their chapters to Tumblr.

ASOIAF and related fandoms:

A Coin Has Three Sides AO3

No-Rebellion AU. Rhaenys finds an unexpected ally in Jon when she sets herself against her step-mother Lyanna and plans to put Jon on the throne. Jon & Rhaenys & Aegon. Various background romantic/sexual ships.

Is it so far from madness to wisdom? Tumblr | AO3

ASOIAF/F&B/HOTD time travel crossover. After the War for the Dawn, Jon ends up being reborn as the newly created son of Rhea Royce and Daemon Targaryen and desperately attempts to mend bridges between the factions at play to avoid the Dance. Jon & Laenor, Jon & lots of others (but not Daemon). Various other romantic/sexual ships.

Potentiality Series Tumblr | AO3

GOT time travel AU. Jon and Daenerys wake up in the past after their deaths in a world with only two noticeable changes: Jon's alternate was Joanna and Dany's was Daeron. Trans Jon. Danaerys/Jon.

Fire in the Rain AO3

Dark Modern Westeros AU. Westeros is no longer a monarchy, but the Targaryens have never stopped coveting it. When Jon brings his girlfriend to visit his family, he's reminded of just how much they cling to the past. Jon/Sansa, Aegon/Rhaenys, various other ships.

Play the Part of Savior AO3

Time Travel AU. To stop the Long Night, Jon goes back in time to the very beginning and falls (quite literally) into the court of the mysterious Bloodstone Emperor. Sarella/Jon (past/flashbacks). Bloodstone Emperor/Jon.

Broken Pieces Floating By AO3

Reincarnation horror AU. When Ana and her friends go into a haunted house, everything starts going horribly wrong, and Ana finds herself drawn into dreams, and a potential past, involving a mysterious lover named Elia. Elia/Lyanna.

What It's Like To Burn AO3

Great Bastards AU. Aerys was what Aegon IV was not and all the Great Bastards are his. When he dies, legitimizing all of his children, Rhaegar I faces potential rebellion from his brother Daemon Blackfyre. Daemon & Jon.

A Dragon in Wolf's Clothing AO3

Soulmate AU. Jon's soulmark comes in leaving him with more questions and the Martells with answers they never asked the questions for. Eventual Oberyn/Ellaria/Jon.

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Final Fantasy VII/VIIR

How Not To Drown AO3

Remake AU where Sephiroth dies during the Nibelheim incident. After Zack's sacrifice, Cloud goes first to Sector Five and finds a home with the Gainsboroughs. Aerith & Cloud & Elmyra. Background other ships.

Tearing Through the Seams AO3

Nibelheim AU. Shotgun rescues Cloud and Zack from the reactor before Hojo can get ahold of them and they both stay with Shinra, more aware than ever of the darkness and threats within. Cloud & Zack, Cloud & Turks.

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Final Fantasy XIV

Halone's Favor AO3

Soulmate AU. Aymeric had been ordered to hide his soulmark and would have continued to do so, but once it was revealed, Emperor Varis offered terms too good to ignore for the recovering Ishgard. Varis/Aymeric.

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Final Fantasy XV

The Spare AO3

Time travel AU. After sacrificing himself to defeat Ardyn, Noctis is reborn in the past as the previously non-existent younger brother of his once-father, Regis. With all the power and knowledge he had at the end of the game, he sets about remaking Lucis and his family into something better. Noctis & Basically Everyone. Nyx/Noctis, Ardyn/Noctis.

King's Hero AO3

Kingsglaive AU. Nyx and Somnus make a deal to save Noctis and save the world. Traveling together, they put together the pieces and powers needed to take down the real enemy. Nyx/Somnus.

Dig My Grave AO3

Vampire AU (inspired by Kindred: The Embraced). Noctis is the last living (mortal) descendant of the powerful vampire Somnus Lucis Caelum, who rules over Insomnia along with his brother and rival Ardyn. Ardyn/Noctis.

Lives Stretched From Sleep AO3

FFXV mixed with what we knew of Versus XIII. Not everything is as it seems in Insomnia, Regis is a darker, colder king and Noctis retreats to his dream to be educated by a dead Oracle. When a peace treaty ends in occupation by Niflheim's forces, Noctis has to unravel the past for answers.

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Throne of Glass

Biding Time Tumblr | AO3

Dark time travel AU. The wars end, the kingdoms rebuild, but the prejudice against those born of Valg blood only deepens as Aelin's court comes to power. Dorian comes back in time bitter and cautious...and accidentally on purpose comes to the attentions of his father and Erawan in new ways. Valg!Dorian. Dorian/so many people.

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World of Warcraft

Cut Strings AO3

Being Rewritten. BFA AU (really post-Legion AU). While certain members of the Alliance call for continued aggression against the Horde, Anduin only wants peace. Realizing there's no place for that in the current factions, he decides to rewrite everything by declaring Stormwind and all of its territories neutral. Wrathion/Anduin, Baine/Anduin, Valeera & Anduin.

No Peace, No Rest AO3

Being Rewritten. BFA AU. Sylvanas attacks Stormwind and Anduin flees to one place she can't easily follow: the Acherus. He stays to protect his people while falling more under the influence of the Death Knights and the darker, more obsessive version of his other father, Bolvar, that he's now faced with. Darion/Anduin. Bolvar & Anduin.

[elfyourmother]

20 but as relates to FFXIV verse and 43!

20. Do they like musicals? Music in general? What do they do when their favourite song comes?

Gisele enjoys music a great deal but her tastes are rather old-fashioned all things considered; she's not into stuff like the Songbirds, to put it mildly. She's quite fond of Ishgardian chamber music for instance, and classical Hannish music. And opera! Gisele adores opera once she's introduced to it. Her favorite is The Dream Oath (aka the opera from FFVI, which I imported to XIV as a Garlean opera written and composed anonymously by Emet in memory of Azem). Haurchefant gave her the orchestrion rolls one nameday and she absolutely fell in love with it. One of the happiest times she's ever had was when the Royal Dalmascan Opera staged a command performance of it in Ishgard for the Alliance leaders and the Ishgardian Parliament, to benefit the Dalmascan resistance fighters, and Aymeric invited her along with Haurche and Emet.

She tends to hum, but if there are lyrics and she does sing along, she does so quite softly; Gisele is terribly self-conscious about her voice, even though it's beautiful. It's one of the few things she's insecure about, because if people hear her then they start telling her she really ought to be a Bard, and then she has to explain that she's terrible at archery, which is something of a sore point for her. Not just because she has Gifted Kid Syndrome like whoa and a discipline being impossible for her to wrap her head around is fairly devastating to her ego, but also because it makes her feel like a failure culturally and even more disconnected from her Dalish heritage than just being alienage born and Circle bred. Her mom was a Dalish archer on par with Legolas for sharpshooting skills, so the fact that Gisele is hopeless with a bow and arrows is painful for her.

A while back someone in bookclub suggested a non-archery based take on BRD for her and I've adopted it, though haven't written or really done anything with it yet beyond a very basic concept. But it's called a Trouvère and it's Ishgardian in origin though ancient, from the time of the original peace between man and dragon, and very much a lost art until Gisele revives it. It combines conjury and thaumaturgy with lyric poetry and song meant to inspire and fortify knights on the field of battle. I'm still figuring out weaponry and part of me is sorely tempted to use the lyre solely for the Edward refs, but for now I think the discipline is versatile enough that one can wield most any weapon, and so Gisele uses her standard rapier and focus from RDM.

As far as where/how she would have learned it...I think she would have discovered it in Dravania, on the road trip; some mysterious Job crystal in the ruins around Zenith probably, and then pieced it together with the help of the old BRD trainer out in the woods (I am brain farting on his name rn but I love him). He's the one that likely teaches her how to play instruments too.

But I think she definitely ends up training Emmanellain in it, because it's absolutely perfect for him.

(Dragonsong is, in universe, an epic ballad Gisele composed in remembrance of the war. Eventually it's turned into an opera itself, even.)

The religion answer was so long I made it a separate post.

[carrotycake]

the world put you in front of me (and we aligned)

A chance encounter at an Ishgardian dance, and Ysayle finds herself falling in love all over again.

4.1k words | Rated M | FFXIV | Estinien/Ysayle pairing | AO3

*

It’s funny, Ysayle thinks. She has spent so much of her life fighting and despising everything the nation of Ishgard stood for, that to be standing here, on the balcony of one of Ishgard’s largest manors, feels a tad hypocritical. For the first time, she appreciates the beauty of the land stretching out in front of her, the late-night sunset (which is as close to a summer as Coerthas gets) casting orange and pink hues across the grey pointed spires of the city itself. She rests her arms on the balustrade, observing the chatter of guests down below. It is oddly peaceful, despite her protestations at being invited in the first place. And still bitterly cold, of course, despite it being summer. Ysayle, shivering, rubs her hands together in an attempt to warm herself up; she had left her coat inside and the thin fabric of her gown was not nearly enough to ward off the freezing night air.

She sighs, her breath exhaling into a cloud of mist in front of her. Had she not gone by the name ‘Iceheart’ for years, revered by her heretic followers? She had survived many harsh Coerthas winters, only for her to shiver now at the merest hint of a breeze. Admittedly, she had found the warmth of the ballroom inside to be a little much, packed as it was with nobles, commoners, and politicians alike. The fresh air, cold as it was, was extremely welcome.

It was Aymeric, of course, that was behind the ball, and her invite to it – the Warrior of Light’s dear friend, and perhaps the most influential man in the city. Endlessly charming, he had persuaded her that it was an olive branch, of sorts, to mend the rifts between heretics and men. And – well, she had wanted to make amends. Lead those who walked after, and all that.

“Out here enjoying the festivities, I see?”

A familiar voice drags her from her thoughts, and she turns to see the tall, lithe body of Estinien crouching carefully on the gables above the double doors leading back into the ballroom. She frowns, irritated that he had caught her unawares in a moment of introspection.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

He shrugs, getting to his feet and gracefully hopping onto the ground beside her; ever the dragoon, she notes. He’s not in the armour he wore the last time they had seen each other, before Azys Lla. Like Ysayle, he is dressed in an approximation of Ishgardian formal wear, his long white hair tied in a loose half-ponytail. He’s handsome, her mind helpfully supplies, and she wills the thought away before it becomes trouble.

“Long enough,” he replies, leaning on the railing a fulm or two away from her, his gaze distant. He frowns. “Formal…balls aren’t really my thing. I needed some air. And – a break from drunk nobles trying to get me to dance with their offspring.”

Ysayle chuckles, despite herself. “I must admit, I did not recognise you at first. You clean up well, when you’re not head to toe in dragon blood.”

He bows his head. If Ysayle is not mistaken, she sees the hint of a blush colour his pale cheeks.

“Well,” he mutters, “You are the opposite, Iceheart. I believe there was not a soul in that room that did not notice you upon entering.”

She raises an eyebrow. “In a good way, or a bad way? Pray, do elaborate.”

Estinien splutters for a second. “Well, I – It is a nice dress. That is all I meant. No doubt the haberdashers will be inundated with requests for similar styles by tomorrow morning.”

A slightly backhanded compliment, but a compliment, nonetheless. “Damned by faint praise, I see.”

She turns to look back towards the sunset. “It is actually one of Tataru’s creations, so they’ll have a hard time prying the pattern from her little hands.”

Tataru had taken over creative control of this project, because formal dances were certainly not Ysayle’s area of expertise, and the Lalafell had been only too happy to help out. The light, drapey cerulean fabric of the dress belied the traditional Ishgardian style, but Ysayle had never cared much for tradition anyway. It was pinned and tucked beautifully, with embroidered details on the neckline and hem. It even – scandalously – showed off a little cleavage, something Ysayle wasn’t necessarily unhappy with.

They stand like that together, a little distance apart, for a few minutes; enjoying the last rays of the sun in what appears to be a companionable silence. How many times had they done this, a mere few months ago? Accompanied by Alphinaud and the Warrior of Light, of course, but together nonetheless. Sunsets always seemed even more spectacular when seen on islands beyond the clouds. Ysayle had never thought to see such beauty again in her lifetime; she had expected to die on Azys Lla, one last act of service as Shiva.

The gods, as it happened, must have had other plans, as she’d fallen from that great height and landed in the middle of a Vanu Vanu outpost; the last remnants of Shiva’s protection shielding her from further harm in the fall. Word had gotten back to Camp Cloudtop of her survival, and she had eventually woken in the infirmary in the centre of Ishgard. Mere days after her own discharge, and Estinien was staying there under the very same care as she had.

She had avoided visiting, though, despite Alphinaud’s almost-insistence that she do so. She had never thought this far ahead in life; now there was peace, real peace, and her old role was no longer needed. Lord Aymeric, introduced through the Warrior of Light, had requested her help in rehabilitating the remaining heretics and repairing the city in exchange for a pardon for her crimes, and she was not about to turn down such an offer. The Scions had allies, and she herself was still blessed with Hydaelyn’s gift, so she might as well make herself useful.

In quieter moments, however, her mind always drifted back to Estinien. She admitted to being a little disappointed when he disappeared from Ishgard without a trace after his recuperation; the small, naïve girl within her longed to believe that they could have been…something, more than just acquaintances passing in the night.

“You are deep in thought, my lady,” he says, a statement more than a question. Ever with the formalities, even when they were at each other’s throats with opposite ideals.

She shakes her head. “Just reminiscing. My life has taken on a trajectory I could not have anticipated before I had met you and your allies. I have much to be grateful for.”

“I admit, I was – glad to hear you had lived. My own fortunes were, you could say, not so lucky after our victory on Azys Lla. I did not hear about – you – until after I had awoken in the infirmary.” Estinien looked – embarrassed, perhaps? Ysayle could not tell, in the dim light of the evening.

“I-” He falters, swallowing. “I wanted to apologise. For things I have said. Knowing now the full truth of the war betwixt man and dragon, I – I said some unkind things. ‘Twas not your fault that I was ignorant.”

Ysayle takes a moment to think on his words. They were not the people they once were, after all. The truth, she thinks, has changed them both. She looks at him, then – he does not shy away from her eye contact – and nods.

“Apology accepted. For what it’s worth, I have a great deal to apologise for as well. My conscience is not clear, by any means.”

Estinien cracks a small smile. (She tries not to think that a smile suits him. It really does.)

“Aye, that is true.”

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by a change of music from the ballroom – a slightly faster tune, reminiscent of folk tunes Ysayle heard as a child at communal dances in Falcon’s Nest. It was clearly designed to bring more couples onto the dance floor, and was so far having the intended effect. Ysayle could see the Warrior of Light, dressed in finery (another of Tataru’s creations), swinging Alphinaud a little too fast round in circles on the dancefloor. Aymeric could be seen, too, dancing politely with Hilda; commoners and nobles alike danced merrily to the band’s music. If this was their new republic, Ysayle thinks, then she quite likes it.

It is this train of thought that compels Ysayle with more bravado than she has; not thinking about where it might lead, she turns to her brooding companion.

“Well, when all is said and done-” She holds out a hand to Estinien, “Care for a dance?”

His brow furrows. “I’ve never- I mean. Forgive me, Ysayle. I’m not much of a dancer.”

She smiles lightly. “Neither am I. But we are alone, for the time being. Indulge me.”

“As you wish,” he frowns, still a tad reluctant, but he takes her outstretched hand regardless and pulls her close and Ysayle thinks, oh.

Oh no.

It has been a long time since she has been this close, physically, with anyone, and she wonders if Estinien can feel her heart thudding loudly in her chest. They stumble at first, taking a few attempts to figure out the rhythm of the song versus the clumsiness of their feet, but eventually settle into a gentle waltz.

Ysayle is acutely aware of the position of Estinien’s hand on the small of her back; its warmth – and he is so warm – practically burning through her dress. They are closer than they need to be, exactly, for the formality of ballroom dance, but Ysayle finds that she does not mind. He is avoiding her eyes now (deliberately, she thinks), so she instead concentrates on the position of her hand on his shoulder, her other hand clasped tightly in his as they circle aimlessly together across the balcony.

“So,” he begins, uncertainly, once they’d found their rhythm, “Where did you learn to dance, then? You seem to have more of a head for it than I.”

Ysayle smiles. “A little, as a child. And we had plenty of impromptu dances when I was-” When I was with the heretics¸ she would have said. Another time, in another life. Estinien, evidently noticing her hesitation, raises an eyebrow.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I simply cannot imagine a band of heretics indulging in such trivial things as dances whilst plotting the fall of Ishgard.”

“You are a fool, then, if you believe that we did nothing but sit around and curse the Holy See whilst getting drunk on dragon’s blood,” Ysayle scowls, swinging Estinien round a little more forcibly than she had intended. He stumbles, a little, before righting himself.

“I did not give much thought to the heretics unless they were forcibly attacking the city,” Estinien says, his tone serious, but the quiet glint in his eyes relaying a certain kind of humour. Ysayle rolls her eyes. He always knew exactly how to push her buttons to get her riled up when they were travelling together, and it seems not much has changed.

“I’ll have you know,” she huffs, “Lord Aymeric himself requested my assistance in restoring the city-”

“To avoid a jail sentence, yes,” Estinien has an eyebrow raised, smirking. He positions his arms just so, allowing her to dip backwards as part of the dance. His arms are secure, holding her in place perfectly before swooping her back up. They continue their circles together, Estinien chuckling at Ysayle’s irritation.

“For someone of little skill, you have picked up this dance remarkably fast,” she comments, her face flushed – from the exertion of the dance, or from Estinien’s attention, she was yet unsure.

“I’m a fast learner,” he says, and was it her imagination or was he a little closer to her than before? He stares resolutely ahead, his expression faintly jovial, and Ysayle tries not think about how good his arms felt holding her up.

The upbeat song currently playing comes to a close and, after a brief interlude, a new one starts up, slower than the previous one. Adjusting their pace accordingly, she thinks back a few months to their expedition together. Gods, she had not cared for the dragoon upon first meeting him. He was narrow-minded, and brash, and had been all-too willing to fight and kill the very creatures they were trying to make their allies without a second thought.

And yet – she had grown to like him, over those many days travelling. At first, the attraction had been purely physical. He was handsome, after all, and Ysayle had caught a peek of him removing his armour to see chiselled muscles and a wiry frame; something inside of her had fluttered, momentarily, when he had removed his helmet in front of her for the first time, revealing uncharacteristically soft, fair hair and deep-set blue eyes.

“Don’t get used to this,” he’d muttered, noticing her looking at him. “I can’t eat your soup with a helmet on.”

She’d blushed, then, almost as much as she was surely blushing now.

Even with Estinien’s growing connection to the Eye of Nidhogg – she’d felt it, creeping, growing, gnawing at him even as they travelled together – and his insistence that killing the wyrm was the best solution, she had caught glimpses of a kinder man underneath his harsh determination. Alphinaud had seen it too, as had the Warrior of Light. It endeared him to her, whether she wanted it to or not. And in the long weeks that had followed her miraculous survival, there had been much time for her to dwell on these thoughts.

Halone’s tits, she was in it now, wasn’t she?

It occurs to Ysayle, just then, that the slow pace of the current song meant that their little, secluded waltz had become less of a dance and more just – swaying gently, endlessly circling, not really paying attention to any kind of rhythm. The whole world, for a second, felt like it was just the two of them, the stars aligning to bring them together in a single moment.

“Your hands are cold,” Estinien murmurs, and she forgets for a moment that she still had one of his hands in hers. Usually a woman of great eloquence, she suddenly finds she is tongue-tied, she cannot speak-

“Y-yes, well. Perhaps it is you that is warm,” she whispers, her breath hitching in her throat as he brings her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. He almost seems surprised at his own boldness, his eyes crinkling in a rare bit of humour at her response.

“Mayhap,” he replies. The night is almost completely upon them now, the only light illuminating their faces being the candlelight from the outside lanterns and the ballroom itself. Their eyes meet, Estinien’s expression unusually soft.

Ysayle is not sure who makes the first move but suddenly his lips are on hers, her arms snaking around his neck, his hands on her hips, guiding them in a new kind of dance. In the end, it does not matter, because she is kissing him, and it is suddenly all she can think about. How long had she thought of this moment? How long had she imagined what Estinien’s kiss would feel like? It was, in truth, longer than she would care to admit.

He kisses with the air of someone who does not have a huge amount of practice, but makes up for whatever experience he lacks with strong, guiding hands; Ysayle soon finds herself pressed up against the iron railings of the balcony, the coldness of the metal on her back in sharp contrast to Estinien’s warm embrace. She feels goosebumps on Estinien’s neck where she is touching him; – yes, her hands are always cold, so cold – she moves a hand round to his lapel, using it to anchor herself to him and pull him closer, ever closer.

They break apart to catch their breath, and she looks up at his face, flushed as red as she’d ever seen it, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Do you, perchance, have a residence in Ishgard, Ysayle?” he breathes, still so close to her. Ysayle knows where this is going, knows where this might end up. And she wants it, Halone knows she does.

“That depends,” she says, curling a lock of his hair around her finger. Estinien exhales, almost impatient.

“On?”

Ysayle pulls away, just enough to see his face fully. “Is this…something you want? Truly?” Am I someone you want? She doesn’t say it, but the words settle between them anyway.

He frowns, a trademark scowl, and grasps the hand currently playing with his hair.

“It is. I am not one to deliver undue suffering to a soul such as yourself. And-” He looks flustered, struggling to articulate, “-this is something I have thought about often. In times of difficulty. The possibility of…something more.”

Oh.

“Well then,” she murmurs, his answer more than satisfactory, “In that case, I have a small apartment in the lower wards of the city.”

“I would very much like to get out of here,” Estinien replies, pressing a kiss to her cheek, another along her jawline. She lets her nails scratch the back of his head, just a little, privately enjoying the effect it seems to have on him.

“If you would permit me, my lady-” He breaks away suddenly, a spark of mischief in his eyes, and scoops her up bridal-style. She splutters, wriggling.

“What are you doing?!”

He peers over the edge of the balcony cautiously. “Avoiding any odd stares we might receive from my good friend’s guests. Now, hold still.”

Before Ysayle has any chance to protest, Estinien bends his knees and leaps, and Ysayle’s heart is rushing, the wind howling in her ears momentarily, and it is not far off what a dragon in flight feels like-

He lands, gracefully, some distance away from the mansion, and places her back on her feet with an uncharacteristic amount of care.

Hand in hand, she leads him through the lamp-lit streets, following well-worn paths to the lower area of Ishgard. More than once he catches her against a wall in a bruising kiss, so the walk takes considerably longer than it normally might on one’s own, but Ysayle is too busy wrapped up in Estinien’s arms to care.

The night is fully upon them now, so upon reaching Ysayle’s apartment there is a small amount of stumbling in the dark until she manages to find a lantern. Estinien, helpful as ever, is predictably distracting as she reaches for a pack of matches, hindered by his hands on her waist as he caresses her from behind.

“You know a lantern isn’t really necessary,” he growls, apparently eager. She rolls her eyes – realises too late that it was a gesture he could not see – and bats him away, momentarily.

“I don’t know about you,” she retorts, “But I like to see my lovers when I’m in bed with them.” She manages to strike a small flame into the lantern, illuminating them both in dim, soft candlelight.

Estinien raises an eyebrow, tailing after her as she leads him to the bedroom. “And has the Lady Iceheart had many lovers, in the past?”

She places the lantern down on the chest of drawers with a thunk. “A few. Borne out of convenience, mostly. Some out of love. All enjoyable, for the most part.”

It might have been a cold way of looking at it, but her time leading the heretics had come with its perks, namely that there was no shortage of people interested in her and her powers. She would never have dared manipulate anyone into sex or abuse her power in any way, but she had not been without company, had she so wanted it.  

“And what about the famed Azure Dragoon?” she says, her tone a little more defensive than she had intended, “I’m sure the position comes with its own amount of attention.”

“Some,” he concedes, “But for the most part, I preferred to spend my free time training. A few dalliances, here and there. Nothing serious.”

Ysayle nods. Fair enough, she thinks. You’d have to be out of your mind if you actually wanted to sleep with that grouchy, stubborn arse of a dragoon anyway. Yet here she was.

“Well then,” she says, instead, “I still wish for your company tonight, if you’ll have me.”

Estinien is already against her, capturing her mouth in his and lifting her – a little roughly, not that she minds – onto the bed. “I was hoping we would get to that eventually,” he grins, wickedly.

“You’re an arse,” she replies, but there is no heart in the insult, not really. There’s not much time for thinking, after that, and she is happy to lose herself in Estinien’s arms for the time being.

Ysayle wakes from what might have been the most restful night’s sleep she’s had in some time. She casts a sleepy glance over her small apartment; the curtains had been left half-drawn the night previously, and the morning light was casting a bright glare across her bed, and the sleeping souls that lay within.

Ah, right.

Estinien is still sound asleep next to her; they must have moved apart in slumber during the night, but she distinctly remembers falling asleep in his arms. For the first time, she sees him and all of his scars in full daylight, and fights the urge to trace them gently with her fingertips. She settles for brushing his bangs out of his eyes; he is so peaceful in sleep, she thinks, his usual furrowed brow replaced with one of general content.

There are bruises too, newer ones, scattering across his neck and chest. Ysayle blushes, a little, because she knows that she is the one who put them there, and that there are similar marks on her own body. They will be covered with clothes, eventually, but for now they sit as a reminder of newfound passions and a lover she can’t quite forget.

His eyes flutter open, and an immediate scowl crosses his face as he adjusts to the bright light streaming in.

“Gods, do you always wake this early? To this kind of racket?” His voice is raspy with sleep, his long hair a little dishevelled.

She throws him a mock-frown. “Usually I remember to shut the curtains. I might have been…a little distracted last night.” She runs a finger along his jaw, lifting his chin so that she could lean and kiss him. He leans into her touch, a different kind of reverence.

“Ah,” he says, softly, when she pulls away, “Yes, that would make sense.”

Their clothes, haphazardly rumpled on a nearby chair would also suggest a measure of distraction. They had only paused long enough last night for Estinien to peel off Ysayle’s dress and his own clothes and place them somewhere off of the ground before continuing his ministrations.

“I don’t have anywhere to be today,” she says, by way of invitation, unsure as to how her overture would be received now that it was morning. Morning, bringing with it clarity, and the uncertain light of day. Estinien may not want anything more than whatever the previous night had been.

To his credit, though, Estinien reaches for her and brushes a few strands of silver hair behind her ear.

“Me neither,” he says, and Ysayle’s heart thuds in relief, “What activities have you planned? Lunch out, mayhap?”

This elicits a laugh from her, despite herself.

“Mm,” she smiles, “Maybe later. For now, I want you all to myself.”

Estinien responds in kind, using his advantage of strength and centre of balance to hold her firmly by the waist and flip her over, laying on her back.

“That can be arranged.”

His eyes are dark with want, and Ysayle finds that it pleases her greatly to be able to obtain this kind of reaction from him. She wants – well, she wants Estinien. All of him. Now. Obviously.

What she really wants, though, is Estinien for longer. Knowing that they might have something to come back to, a home found in each other’s hearts – the thought terrifies her, as it wasn’t something easily articulated to her stoic lover. Still, she thinks, perhaps in time.

For now, she has the man she wants in her bed, and that is enough.

[aethernoise]

Can I have 2,3,5,31,35,41 for the OTP please? Sorry for asking so many at once. I just love them so much

Please friend, no apologies necessary. This will be another long one, so long that I’m actually going to split it into multiple posts LOL

2.  How’s their teamwork? Do they share well?

They share quite well and often, though it was not always so. While Alyx has always been lucky enough to have enough money to keep her comfortable (well, for her standards, at least) Aymeric’s wealth used to make her a little uncomfortable. He’s such a practical and humble soul she had trouble remembering in the beginning that oh, yeah actually, lower house or no and uncertain lineage be damned, he is well and truly in the “highborn” tax bracket--and apparently one of the small handful of things he truly did enjoy spending a pretty penny on was her. It’s not so much that he showered her with expensive gifts (and he doesn’t, really, save for the ones he knows will be useful and truly appreciated) but that her lifestyle dictated always paying her share of everything, or offering repayment in favors or trade, that’s just how your mind works when you spend years with the primary career title of “adventurer.” Being treated to things so happily and easily was hard to get used to. Great example: one time she needed a gown to wear to something Very Fancy, and he not only paid for it, but commissioned a second one in another color because then she could have two options and avoid the stress of finding something to wear to the next inevitable formal occasion. It took no extra effort on his part, the seamstress already had her measurements, after all! A most practical gift! ...and then he had to endure both a flustered tirade and her relentless insistence that she pay him back for both... 

... Basically, that was an adjustment, and so was her gradually increasing presence at Borel Manor. I think I mentioned once before that she really didn’t leave her things there save for items mistakenly left behind (and apologized for) until Aymeric, ever the height of kindness and practicality, let her know that yes you can leave things here? There is plenty of closet and bathroom space? You can even have an entire shelf to yourself in the library if you need it? Or more, I don’t care, this is your home, and it has been for a long time, even if you’re not always here. 

She is still getting used to the concept every day, but she feels much more comfortable taking responsibility for household tasks and for bringing home more books, somehow, every single time--though the Manor is fully staffed it’s still a big house and both are ready and comfortable to perform whatever household tasks need doing.

Smaller and sillier notes: Alyx is a shirt-borrower, but only borrows the shirts she knows he doesn’t wear as often, and therefore won’t be inconvenienced by their mysterious absence/extremely adorable oversize cuteness when she wears them. Aymeric can be a bit of a pillow stealer, which Alyx has tried to remedy with simply adding more pillows, but then she’ll wake up and find him wrapped around and splayed out among several like he’s a dragon with a hoard. Or like a goldfish growing to the size of its tank. He will end up with more than his share of pillows and she has just learned to deal with it and incite playful combat when necessary.

3.  Are they open about their relationship? How do they feel about public displays of affection?

They are very discreet in public but have relaxed a bit over time. They weren’t necessarily keeping their relationship a secret, but in the beginning they were trying to keep it on the down-low as possible because frankly Ishgardian society had enough to talk about already with the forming of a new republic and moving on from the war and all else. If you knew either of them well you could definitely see it, and you could see it was more than just Aymeric being Classy Charming Gentleman Ser Aymeric(tm). A classy charming gentleman he may be, but he definitely does NOT steal subtle touches of the small of her back or lean QUITE so close to speak to her in a loud ballroom... certainly not lingering that half-second too long on a hand-kiss or, Fury forfend, secretly lacing fingers under a dinner table! No, these are the actions of a man in love, and one who takes great joy in teasing the living daylights out of his very, very physically affectionate partner who is having quite a bit of difficulty not tearing his clothes off before the dessert course.

These little gestures are not always inspired by spicy moods, but they are a communication of intimacy even if frequently unnoticed by the general public. They’ve become less subtle more recently, especially since word of their engagement started to get around. You might even catch sight of them kissing quickly goodbye at the airship landing or, far more scandalously, holding hands.

[scotianostra]

On June 19th 1306 Robert the Bruce was routed at the Battle of Methven.

Six weeks after murdering Comyn at Greyfriars Bruce was crowned King of Scots at Scone, but the country was by no means his, civil war broke out and there was also the small matter of Edward I who had not given up his pursuit of conquering Scotland.

Longshanks  was furious when he heard of Bruce’s coronation and sent an army north to hunt Bruce down.  This army commanded by Aymer de Valence flew the dreaded Dragon Banner, which was the flag that showed no prisoners would be taken.

The English captured Perth by June 1306 and Bruce arrived at the west of the city with his army on the 18th of June.  Bruce rode up to the city wall and demanded the English come out to battle for the City. This was refused, so Bruce insisted that the English commander come and engage in single combat, but he was told by the English that they would not fight that day as it was a Sunday so an offer to meet the next day was accepted by Bruce.  He withdrew his forces to Methven Woods.  

The Scot’s unsaddled horses, fed them, lit cooking fires and rested.  Suddenly a distant rumble was heard. This got louder and louder, then an alarm was shouted “the English attack!”.  Bruce had been betrayed. The wily, battle-hardened English commander had caught the naive young Scottish King off guard.  As far as Valence was concerned, he was not only dealing with rebels but ones that had murdered a relative on holy ground, his daughter was the widow of The Red Comyn.

Chaos reigned the Scots foot soldiers that were not cut down fled as the heavy armed English Knights rode through the Scottish camp slashing and stabbing with sword, battle-axe and mace.  Bruce and his knights were desperately trying to mount their horses and could offer no effective resistance. Bruce is said to have been captured in the fighting, luckily by a Scot fighting for the English. This man realised that the King of Scots would be executed if captured and let Bruce go. 

In heavy fighting both Bruce and Aymer de Valence had their horses killed under them.  Bruce and what was left of his force fled the battle and lost to the Scottish cause at Methven were some of the Scottish King’s key supporters as most of those captured were executed. A stone memorial to this battle can be seen in a wooded walk at Methven and is signposted in the village.

Bruce and about 500 followers were lucky to escape with their lives, he would live to fight another day, but another defeat would follow in August, if The Bruce thought all of Scotland would fall in behind him he would soon discover different

[austinonymous]

Coping, Now that You’re Gone

Title: Coping, Now that You’re Gone

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV - A Realm Reborn

Ship: Haurchefant Greystone x Male Warrior of Light

Characters: Artoirel de Fortemps, Emmanellain de Fortemps, Miqo’te Warrior of Light (Ahleh’li)

Rating: T (because I’m paranoid)

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191988

Summary: The events of the Vault... he'd had barely any time to think about what he had just lost when he'd rushed after the Archbishop. Now, the drinking habits he'd picked up in his adopted home of Limsa Lominsa were coming in handy.

_________________________________________________________

        Ishgard was a singularly cold city; he doubted Ser Aymeric would deny him that.

         It was both fascinating and ridiculous to think about- a combination of brilliance and frustration. Those who built the city saw fit to place it on a lonely outcropping of rock, with shear cliffs on all sides that subjected the entire city with near constant freezing winds that whistled by with blistering ferocity. It was one of the few reasons that the dragons had yet to approach from any direction besides the sole connection to the rest of Coerthas that was the bridge; doing so was exhausting for any beast and would leave the weakened creature a sitting duck for Ishgard’s mighty cannons.

         The citizens of the city were lucky in that the winds had maintained consistent patterns, allowing the Holy See to map them over the years to find the few ways their chocobos and flying ships could ferry people to and from the city.

         Of course, that did little to help with the swirling frost that circled the city, constantly seeking any purchase in its walls and towers. The snow tried to claw its way inside, and the only reason the city wasn’t buried under several inches of snow was the updrafts drove the snow away mostly. The sky fought itself every second, miraculously leaving the noble and poor alike safe from the worst of the weather’s attempts to encase them in an ever-deepening layer of ice.

         Despite that safety net, when one gazed on it, the city looked desolately cold. While the towering architecture of his home city was grand and its cathedrals and halls still filled him with awe, the endless stonework made living here when in a foul mood near insufferable. He didn’t have the glistening sea at his doorstep like back in Limnsa Lominsa, nor the pure white stone mixed in with the more traditional grey stone quarried from the cliffsides nearby. It was startling how refreshing a simple breeze felt while standing on the terraces of his adopted home, brushing up against him and caressing his cheek like a fisherman coming in from a long night’s work. The salt of the bustling harbor did not cling to his arms and mix into the fur of his tail or ears here, and the boisterous sounds of drunken song from a dozen barely controlled pirate crews could not be heard.

         If he was there, across the continent, Ahleh’li would bury his sorrows in booze and drunkenly dance on table-tops with the sailors of the city. Merry step-dances and improvised line-dances as a random sailor played a beat out on the well-worn skin of a drum as the wicks of the candles burned away. His old guild-master from the Arcanists guild would likely chastise him for not spending time on his incantations and spellwork surely, but Jacke would cheer him on before finding a secluded balcony for his other Rouges to share a pint and try and cheer him up.

         It was funny- Ishgard was where he was raised, but in this moment of great sorrow it did not feel like home.

         His companion shifted a bit to his right, a bit uneasy. Ahleh’li smirked a bit at the young elezen- though to be fair Emmanellain was actually a little older than himself, “Hn- Ya ‘een a wee s’bit antsy there Mister,” he tried to tease the man before frowning as his speech came out in the more slurred accent he’d gained while with the Rouges and the sailors of the port city. He coughed, forcing his brain to focus a bit more so that he wouldn’t appear quite so inebriated.

         Really, he hadn’t had that much liquor. Over his time getting into drinking contests with the large and broad-chested Roegadyn, Ahleh’li had learned to stomach enough to topple the seven-foot-tall race. It must have been quite some time since his last drinking contest to be getting this affected already.

         Oh yes. His last had been with… with…

         Ahleh’li took another swig of his ale, savoring the taste as it burned down his throat, Emmanellain sighing as he did so, “My dear Warrior of Light, I know how you must be feeling- gods, I mean I didn’t know him well, but he was my half-brother still,” He said depressingly as he took a small sip of the Forgotten Knight’s ale. “Is this truly the best way to deal with this? I know the docks of Limsa Lominsa are much different than here but… this seems… ineffective.”

         Ishgardian nobility and their weak stomachs- what Ahleh’li wouldn’t give to have Captain Jacke here, or Towering Stone, maybe Thancred too. It was too bad his fellow Scion was out scouting the Garlean’s movements.

         “Well, see here Emmanellain, s’not supposed to be effective. That’s the whole point; you drink till your dancing on the rafters and forgetting about whatever it was that got you into the tavern to begin with,” Ahleh’li said pointing a finger at the young noble elezen.

         “That does not sound healthy in the slightest,” Came the calm yet dour tones of the older Fortemps brother. The Miqo’te looked back with a raised eyebrow, tail swishing behind him as he gazed up at Artoirel.

         He took a moment before humming, “Perhaps not, yet here we all are. Your city is being forcibly changed from a theocracy, discontent and distrust bubbles under its surface, and everyone has dead to count.” Ahleh’li sighed, gazing into the mug in front of him, “What I wouldn’t give to be fighting the Garleans again in Mor Dhona. No secret revelations that complicated your feelings besides how truly massive assholes they all were.”

         Artoirel sighed and pushed a black bang out of his face, “Ser Aymeric sent me to find you; he’s quite worried for you, as is young Alphinaud.”

         That earned the noble a finger-wagging, as Ahleh’li’s ears perked up at the mention of Alphinaud, “Now now, that young man is only a couple years younger than me, so be careful what comments you make about his age Mister Heir Apparent.”

         Scoffing, the noble shook his head and smirked, “Unlike yourself I doubt Alphinaud can down a half dozen of the inn’s strongest ales without vomiting up his guts in the corner. I think I can call him young at least in that respect.”

         Ahleh’li nodded solemnly, before snickering. Alphinaud was really just too cute for his own good- not that it was an unattractive quality. It was endearing, and he treasured the other arcanist’s friendship dearly. Especially after everything the both of them had been through ever since escaping Ul’dah.

         The mood had lightened for a moment, but Artoirel soon sent it crashing back down again as he raised the issue once again, “I have to agree with Ser Aymeric and Alphinaud however; this is not what you should be doing to cope with the sacrifice of our dear brother.”

         His fingers clenched around the handle of his mug, but Ahleh’li managed to hold his fury in, “What should I be doing? Shall I go get revenge and bring those who hurt him to justice? Well, did that already and it did jack shit for me. “

         Emmanellain sighed as he set down his own mug and looked at the younger man, “We don’t need to drown our sorrows like this at least. You have many friends around you to take solace in. You’re even slowly finding members of the Scions you lost, aren’t you? Even if Haurchefant is gone, you need not suffer alone.”

         Ahleh’li’s breath hitched at the utterance of Haurchefant’s name, his alcohol-addled mind immediately conjuring his cheerful face to mind. Steaming mugs of cocoa in hand as he offered them refuge after being forced to run. A wide smile on his face as he playfully teased the smaller Miqo’te before they both downed another glass of ale. The wisps of frost puffing from his mouth, swirling past a face framed by disheveled hair and shirt hanging dangerously low on his shoulder as he lay over Ahleh’li. The red on his cheeks as Ser Aymeric gave them both knowing smiles as they shuffled in to plan for the combat operations to come. The gentleness of hands calloused from battle, carefully holding his own as they lay in front of a fireplace together in his quarters.

         It had been dream-like, despite all the trials they were going through. And like most of Ahleh’li’s dreams, it had ended by turning into a nightmare.

         A hand was suddenly placed on his shoulder and Ahleh’li looked up at the sympathetic face of Artoirel, startled. The noble sighed, looking away before speaking, “I know that this is all quite unwanted, and you likely wish to grieve without the rest of us. The Fury knows that Father has been secluded in his study ever since he received the news. This still, still it is not healthy. You, Alphinaud, Haurchefant, Ser Aymeric, and Estinien, have supported each other throughout this ordeal- throwing away their companionship now amid grieving is a mistake I wish to not see you make.”

         His tongue darted out and licked his lips to wet them; Ahleh’li did not enjoy this conversation in the least bit. He blinked, suddenly realizing what Artoirel was talking about, “I… I take it Alphinaud is not handling the disappearance of Estinien well?”

         The older noble shook his head, grim, “As someone with a younger brother, I know the sort of admiration he had for Estinien. Even if the Dragoon’s absence is not exactly abnormal, the lack of communication from him is. And with the Dragonsong War still going until peace negotiations start, his absence bodes ill.”

         That did not sound good. Ahleh’li had grown to respect the Dragoon over their time together traveling Dravania and Albathia’s Spire, and for him to be missing after all this mess with the Holy See went down…

         Still, that wasn’t the worst of it. Really, after everything they’d been through, here Ahleh’li was drowning his sorrows in booze while he left his elezen friend and people like Ser Aymeric who had been nothing but supportive to mourn Haurchefant and fret over Estinien’s disappearance alone.

         After Haurchefant had passed, only wishing to see a smile on Ahleh’li’s face as his eyes closed forever.

         Ahleh’li groaned, staggering to his feet as he dragged his sleeve across his mouth to wipe away any of the froth left there by his ale. The two brothers looked at him curiously and the Miqo’te gave them his best smile, raising his mug in one last gulp of ale, “To the greatest knight this realm has seen, and to a future where his death won’t have been fruitless.”

         Perhaps it wasn’t a convincing toast, or smile. But that didn’t matter. If he was to move on, he needed to do so with a smile. Getting through this grief intact would be his personal monument to a man who’d saved his life.

[elezendad]

I have a bit of a lore problem with Marcelloix and I’m not really sure how to deal with it.  Marcelloix is an honorable man or at least tries to be.  After the Truth of the Dragonsong War was revealed he mourned those Dragons he killed in his short service to the Temple Knights.  They were the victims spurred on by Nidhogg’s song.  I think this is probably the biggest part of his lore.  The reason why he refuses to ever kill again unless the situation is extremely dire.

His honor and his empathy lead to him betraying his family who sided against Aymeric’s reforms with the Brothers of True Faith.  He literally fought his own Mother and was lucky enough to disarm her he handed her and his father over to his fellow Temple Knights to be arrested for their crimes against Ishgard and her people.

The problem is he was a sworn Temple Knight and after all of this transpired he left Ishgard.  There was too much pain there, too much guilt for killing innocent, sentient Dragons and for betraying his Sire and Mother.  I don’t think he even resigned, he just probably left Ishgard behind.  I don’t know if Ishgard’s new republic would see him, and I’m sure many others left as well, leaving without resignation as desertion.  If they do then he can never return home to Ishgard.

Another problem is that he DID return to Ishgard at one point when he heard the rumors of the Dravanian Horde heading for Ishgard for the battle of the Final Steps of Faith.  He played no huge part in that battle but he aided a group of soldiers in holding off a wave of Dragons.  He inspired his allies with his songs and aimed to wound, not kill the Dragons under Nidhogg’s Thrall.  I don’t think anyone would recognize some strange man arriving in the midst of battle clad in green mummer’s attire wielding a bow and lyre.  Once the battle was finished he left as quietly and quickly as he arrived. 

[allycryz]

FFXIV 9-20: Petrichor

I am not sure if this is set before or after Avatar but they're around the same general time. (Probably before) Post 3.0, DRK Ysayle, set in the "official" Nerys canon

Past tense, 1300ish words

Rated T, food talk, oblique references to assault, abuse, abuse of power because of the Halonic Church

--

"Good morning,” Ysayle greeted the woman at the cookpot. Her breath was a puff of white from her lips and a curl of burning air in her throat. “Are you in need of ingredients this morning, good mother?”

The woman slid sharp green eyes over Ysayle’s face and garb with levin-quick assessment. Took in the trapper’s tools at her belt, the fur and hides making up her clothes.

“Aye, if yer price is none too steep.” The woman said at last.

“I need no coin,” said Ysayle. “I have not been to Ishgard in moons now and feel as if I’ve stepped into another world entire. I have at least three pounds of Yak meat to offload.”

Another calculation, another long look. The woman looked down at her gloved hands. “It’s a lot to tell. Sit yerself down and peel potatoes, since you’ll be distractin’ me with gab.”

“I can do that.”

The woman was in her later years and called Floris, no family name given. Ysayle sat by her cookfire close enough to keep her hands warm while she stripped off her gloves. Those same sharp eyes watched her peel three potatoes before Floris gave a nod and busied herself with the meat.

She did not ask Ysayle her name or about the scars.

“How long’s ‘moons’ for ye?” Her great butcher knife thwacked through the yak flesh and sinew.

“When last I was here, the archbishop fled the city.” Near enough, at least.

Floris let out a long breath. “Feels like an age since he did. Don’t know if I miss ‘em, to tell the truth. Nice to know they won’t drag me ‘fore the church fer sayin’ so.”

“Aye,” Ysayle exhaled. “So the inquisition really is no more.”

“S’what his lord speaker told us all. He’s a good one but...he’s a toff. Can’t be sure of ‘em really.” The woman waved her knife in the air. “Thinkee’s a bit of a dreamer, that one.”

Ysayle, once a dreamer herself, smiled a little. How funny, that she and Lord Aymeric had been on opposing sides for years when they could have been friends. Twas not so difficult to imagine, after becoming comrades-in-arms with the two former Azure Dragoons.

“I’d heard he’d died, the archbishop. And that Lord Aymeric changed everything.”

“More ‘r less. Make sure all those tater peels get in that second pot, it’ll make a broth fer the next batch. I’ll start at the beginnin’ and you tell me if’n you heard it already.”

Floris’ story was familiar to what Ysayle had gathered from trappers in the Coerthas, the hunters in Dravania, and the dragons from both lands. There were pieces she didn’t have before about what promised changes had or hadn’t come about in the city. High Houses pushed off their pedestal but still lords and ladies treated the Brume like ants beneath their shoes.

“Worst of it’s stopped. Any knight who came huntin’ round here...they’re mostly gone. Wish‘ee’d done it sooner when he was just knight commander but…” Floris shrugged tense shoulders. “Maybe he tried. Maybe he didn’t. Better than nothin’ I s’pose. An’...well we have our own way of dealing with those making trouble.”

“Mostly gone,” Ysayle murmured, eyes narrowing.

“They made ‘em pay for it, the knights an’ church. Over there…” Floris pointed with her knife. “Where they stabbed ‘em. Down the street and around that building.”

“Stabbed...Lord Aymeric?”

“Right, he kept it quiet. But we all know.” The yak fat hit the bottom of the stew pot and began to sizzle away. Ysayle’s fingers grew stiff despite the roaring fire. “ Course he went out soon as he could, walkin’ around like nothin’. That was when the dragon saved the girl from fallin’. Saw that myself, I was off to say some prayers fer me girls, ask the Fury to watch over ‘em.”

At this, the woman lifted her chin. “I know what some say. But the Fury didn’t start the war. She’s watchin’ over us, maybe just different from how we thought.”

“Right,” said Ysayle, who had given up on Halone years ago. The Twelve were indifferent at best, the Fury especially guilty. But it was not She who pushed the first Thordan to his horrific deeds and the last Thordan to continue his lies. And she had no urge to insult this woman’s faith.

It was clear, had been clear since the day in Zenith, that Ysayle was as blindly groping in her beliefs as the rest of mortalkind.

“You saw the dragon rescue her?”

“Aye.” The first trace of softness touched her mouth. “Heard ‘er screamin’, the lot of us ran for’d as if we could do anythin’. And I saw her scared little face...till the dragon caught’er. Not ashamed to admit I cried when I saw the lass was safe. Think I saw the lady Nerys cryin’ a little too, once she came back down ta’ us.”

Her heart and throat tightened at the image. All of it, but especially the relief Nerys must have felt. One friend wounded, one trapped in Nidhogg, and there was talk Lord Haurchefant had been grievously wounded by the Heaven’s Ward. Such burdens on her heart and likely more to come.

Another woman, also in her later years, arrived with two steaming coil-clay mugs. She and Floris chatted a while and Ysayle kept her head down to continue at the potatoes. Her fingers touched the stone at her neck to ensure the glamour prism subtly altering her features remained intact.

“Come back later and get your soup,” Floris told the retreating woman after some minutes. She took the knife from Ysayle’s hands and pressed the mug between her palms. “Victoire saw I had ya’ helpin’ and brought over a second cup. You don’t let it go to waste now.”

The tea was delicious and strong with a bare hint of sweet. The cup itself...her fingers seemed too sensitive to the change in temperature. Ysayle relished in it however, at yet another reminder that she was alive and well enough to be uncomfortable.

Floris added rock salt, leeks, and herbs to the crackling fat before settling against the stall counter with her mug. “Story’s not even half done. Always thought things changed so fast after the Calamity...had no idea what was in store fer us all.”

“None of us could,” said Ysayle. “I never imagined I’d see a shift greater than the green highlands covered in eternal snow.”

‘Fury but I miss the sight. Beautiful, ‘specially in the springtime. My girls and I...took them on picnics sometimes. Didn’t have to stay in these walls s’much.” Now it’s her green eyes that turn soft, looking into the past. To the verdant fields and hills, the little animals and birds that dotted the world as much as the yellow dandelions and lavender sprigs. “Y’know what I miss most?”

Ysayle smiled a little. ‘What’s that?”

“Smell before the rain. Can’t describe it, just ya’ always knew it meant rain comin’.”

She had not thought of it much, to be true. Ice and snow carried their own scents and she had embraced them as no other. Believed so strongly in their power and the visions of the Echo that she stopped missing the days before the Calamity took everything from her—home and hearth, family and friends, green and gold.

“...I’d like to know it again some day,” Ysayle said, struck at the yearning in her. She might go to Dravania or Gridania easily and solve the problem. But it wasn’t as simple as that.

Ysayle in that moment missed having it in Coerthas as much as she missed anything else she had lost.

“I think you will,” said Floris, watching her. “Now. Cut these peeled taters in half so they’re ready fer when I’m ready fer them. And I’ll tell you ‘bout what happened at the Nest.”