#Idristan Agache

[liminal-storage]

Small Offerings

Small thing I wrote in an attempt to get my writing wheels to turn again, and while it isn't perfect at least it conveys what I wanted it to.

Featuring mentions of characters belonging to: @reddevil-xiv, @roses-and-grimoires, and @thedarknesssings

No content warnings apply. -------------------- The muscles in her legs were starting to feel a little weak. 

Walking for hours did tend to lead to fatigue, she supposed, but Kuni blamed the cold more than the exercise in this case. She could feel it seeping through the layers of her clothes, see it spreading her breath as a fine silvery fog on the evening air, smell its crisp, cool, and dry presence as the skies gave over to nightfall. Winter in the air, chasing golden autumn on swift and ravenous feet. 

But the walking had a purpose, and in spite of the fatigue she still had something to do before she could go home. Besides, she didn’t want to shame the hound that walked beside her, shadowy paws silent even where they should have scraped over stone. Aello didn’t seem like she ever tired. With grace and dignity she carried on even through cold and the swift descent of night. This was well. It reminded Kuni of her task, the purpose for coming out here and wandering until her feet went sore. A small sack draped across her shoulders, light enough to avoid straining her muscles but with enough weight to push her forward. 

She could not remember the last time she’d prayed. The gods had become uncaring, capricious, and unfeeling in her eyes. Or at least they had been for a long, long, time. Yet in spite of, or perhaps because of that fact, here she walked, searching for the deepest, darkest part of the forest where the light of civilization could not pierce the thicket and the only illumination was that of a lantern or of the skies above. Here she would set the sack down, and here Aello would sit beside her as she offered prayers to the sky. 

"I hear them. Thousands. Prayers to the Twilight, to the Dusk, to the coming Dawn. For love, for help, for succor. For things large and small. For.. anything. For everything. What I am, on the lips of a chorus of voices I have to ignore all the time.”

Those words echoed in her mind long after the fact, as so many conversations with Talia tended to do. They were not the only words to linger. In fact, most of that particular conversation had, the thoughts which had been shared with her on replay. Those echoes, and that insight, were what brought her here tonight. 

She lifted her hands to the sky and tipped her head back so that she might look upon that vast canvas in full. Her fingertips were already a bright pink color thanks to the chilled air, and she noted with some amusement that the pink of her flesh matched with some of the pink of the early sunset. She could just barely see the moon’s rise, a faint crescent peering out from behind some low-hanging clouds covered in the sunset’s splash of color. For a moment or two, she felt the familiar gnaw of doubt creeping over her shoulders, some sense of embarrassment chasing on the heels of her determination to come here and make offerings to the sky. 

“We feed on belief. The belief of those prayers, and so we answer them to cultivate that belief. To help, while not skewing the balance too far. ...Sometimes, being around Priarch is like being starved."

Somehow she doubted her prayers would do much to sustain the fae. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in them, but with how long it had been since she’d beseeched any sort of entity for anything, it felt…awkward. Particularly with how vocal she’d been before, her biting words condemning the fae. And perhaps some might see this as blasphemous, an affront to Eorzea's Twelve. All the same, she would pray. There was no blasphemy in this for her, who believed that more than one deity could share responsibility for their domain.

As she crouched to open the sack she’d brought with her, it occurred to Kuni that she had no idea what to pray for. But what better way to figure it out than to give a voice to her thoughts, right? A handful of petals scattered from the bag, the bright red of chrysanthemums mingled with small white flossflowers and the star-shaped purple heads of phlox flowers. A few yellow sunflower petals mingled with the bunch, all of the flowers the last bunch of the season. Normally such an offering was more fitting for spring or summer, but she supposed winter didn’t see very many blossoms. 

Kuni cleared her throat and stood, scattering the colors upon the ground. 

“I don’t really know what to pray for,” she confessed to the wind. “My prayers have often gone unanswered, and I don’t want to greedily ask for anything. Not really. You said people pray for things large and small. Love, help, succor. I have plenty of help around me. I don’t really need anything…” 

Humor colored her tone when she spoke next, a light chuckle flowing from her throat. 

“Although, I won’t say no if you happen to decide to hook me up on a date with someone.” 

A half-hearted joke, really, and one that she hoped would help her find the proper words. That humor died away and she cleared her throat once more, hands freeing another shower of petals from the bag. 

“I don’t have anything to pray for right now. So instead of asking for anything, how about I offer a prayer of gratitude instead? I wonder how common those are for you, huh?” 

She knelt down and pulled another item from the bag, shaking loose a few flowers stuck to its glass sides. A jar full of tiny, trapped lights. A few turns of the lid freed the particles from their glass prison and a swift shake sent them drifting. These were not fireflies, but bioluminescent spores. It was far too late in the year for the glowing insects, but it still felt fitting to offer something like the stars during her prayer. 

“My thanks to the night for its dazzling blanket of stars, holding the moon and the gloaming within its dark embrace. Praise for its blue-black splendor, a fathomless shroud to cool the fevered earth and welcome the song of the world’s nocturnal children.” 

Next from the bag came a smooth, round thunder egg cracked in half to show layers of iridescent white crystal. Hard to think of something fitting to resemble the moon that wasn’t food, so the stone would have to do. 

“I give thanks for the moon’s pale light to illuminate dark forest paths. I hail its power of transformation, making the night's landscape a new world for exploration. Praise for its clear reflection on dark water after stormy seas to guide travelers home.”

She tipped the sack upside-down, and a few autumn leaves fell out with the rest of the petals. Something small and faintly glimmering landed amidst the leaves and she bent to retrieve it. Twilight was the most difficult to devote a small gift to. With its shifting colors and brief time in the sky, there was no one object that could accurately reflect the way it faded from vibrant reds and oranges and golds to cooler purples and blues. The chip of fire opal pinched between her thumb and forefinger would have to do, and she placed it next to the other two offerings with care. 

“I offer gratitude to the twilight for the quiet reflection of early morning. Praise for its radiant beauty in creating both fiery skies and cool lilac clouds, for its gentle transience which bids us to stop and let thoughts drift away for but a moment in appreciation of its colors.” She stood up and brushed some dirt from her coat, dusted her hands, and called for Aello. That was prayer enough, she felt. It wouldn’t do to oversaturate her time with more words that might be seen as pandering when all she wanted was to offer simple thanks. Maybe the prayers wouldn’t mean anything. Perhaps they’d go unheard altogether. Perhaps her offerings might be swept down-river by a storm, or plucked up by a curious hand. Though it bothered her a little, she supposed that was fine. The point was she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. There was no need to feel shame for that. 

Muscles aching a little more now that the sun was finishing its descent and the biting cold was setting in, she quickened her pace towards home. 

[reddevil-xiv]

T. Redwing

—𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒔

Name: Talia / Talan Redwing Nicknames: Devil Age: ??? Appears late-twenties. Nameday: 26th Sun of the 6th Astral Moon Race: Ishgardian Half-Elezen (Fae) Gender: Genderqueer Orientation: Pansexual Profession: Magitek Engineer, Sniper, Marksman & Security Lead with Priarch Enterprises

—𝒑𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔

Hair: Fire red, mid back. Eyes: Right eye violet, left eye green. / Right eye green, left eye violet. Skin: Porcelain pale / warmly bronzed with greyish undertones. Tattoos/scars: They are devoid of scarring, though she possesses several tattoos in celestial themed patterns. These never seem to stay quite the same, with the starry constellations shifting and moving from time to time.

—𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚

Parents: Jeulerant Sergenaux (Father), Meallaire Sergenaux (Step-Mother), Tiamara Shadoweaver (Birth Mother; deceased) Siblings: Darien Sergenaux (Fraternal Twin), several other half-siblings or siblings through adoption. Grandparents: Maternal: Lady Blanchefleur Sanguemont & Ser Oliver Redwing (both deceased). Great-Great Grandfather: Arafel de Courcelle. Paternal: ??? In-laws and Other: Plenty of extended family thanks to connections to House Courcelle and House Sanguemont. Spouses: Caedrian Sombrenuit (as Talia), Idristan Agache (as Talan). Children: Tisiphon Sombrenuit (son), Alecto Sombrenuit (son) & Megaera Sombrenuit (daughter). Pets: 'Bitsy', a magitek bit hand crafted when she was a child. 'Posie', a living mossball created by Kuni Muinvel who has very sharp teeth.

—𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔

Abilities: Talia is exceptionally skilled with guns at all ranges, though they excel best with a marksman or sniper rifle and has made her living for a long time with those skills. She is a passable combatant with a fencing rapier, and knows quite a bit of magic from the extensive and often brutal training she had to undergo during her early life. She has all of the abilities of a celestial fae of the Court of Midnight, primarily specializing in illusion magic.

—𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔

Most Positive Trait: Fiercely loyal and as trustworthy as anyone could imagine a faerie to be. Most Negative Trait: Exceptional self-depreciation and low self-esteem.

—𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒔

Colors: Red, Black, Silver, Green, Violet Smells: Amber, leather, metal, roses, ozone Textures: Leather, polished metal, gunpowder, feathers Drinks: Scotch, Coffee, Ishgardian tea

—𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔

Smokes: Frequently; usually some type of blended cigarette flavored with clove. Drinks: Less excessively than she used to, but still more than should be healthy. Drugs: Frequently; mostly either the edible or smokable kind. Sometimes somnus, often more rare drugs made by friends. Mount Issuance: Aline, a light grey war chocobo that was bred from the Rosaire stables, purchased a few short years ago from Silvaineaux. Don't mind the slight fae influence there. Otherwise; Reaper, a magitek reaper broken down and repurposed into a motorcycle capable of flight and outfitted with an intelligence core to give it semi autonomy. Been Arrested: More than once, but usually for drunken or disorderly conduct after some barfight or another.

Tagged by: @houserosaire Thank you so very much friend! Tagging: Everyone I would have tagged has been tagged already. But just for some peer pressure: @blisteringstar, @roses-and-grimoires, @liminal-storage, @thedarknesssings. Tag me if you do this so I can see it!

[gorgagne-viperidae]

(mild cw for ??? themes. a little violent daydreaming. idristan belongs to @roses-and-grimoires and helivant is @thedarknesssings

all of this was written and posted on mobile. help)

The hunt is underway. Somewhat.

You, Huntsman, you crouch atop the goliath remains of a Shroud treant, hunkered down into the gnarled grey branches of its crown like an opo-opo in the midst of its myriad games. The treant’s petrified husk sits at rest on the crest of a slope overlooking Larkscall, the perfect vantage point if you have a quarry to find and the patience to burn. Today you have both, each objective tied neatly together by a simple, unquestionable, unfailing motivator: Helivant is waiting.

Somewhere on the winding paths of the forest’s eastern reaches strolls your day’s prey, some pale thing with a sneer engraved on his high-boned Ishgardian face, like a quail puffed beyond its station. You know without knowing how that he will pass by here on his way to wherever his business demands; the only question left is the when. This is where you come in, Huntsman, rifle against your shoulder unmoving as the treant in which you have perched since the early morning. It is up to you to sound the signal that sends the quail fluttering.

Luckily for you, you are good at waiting, and the dead don’t sleep. Despite this, you still drift. You wouldn’t call it sleep by any stretch of the imagination, yet it is still an absence, a removal of you from the moment. Sometimes when you close your eyes, you imagine you can still see with both. That the empty socket of your right still holds something that isn’t the cold curse that has followed you out of slumber and into the Black Shroud’s twisting confines. The forest’s fragrant leaf rot isn’t enough to break the illusion of the thought when it comes, and oh, when you blink against the afternoon light filtering down through the canopy, it comes.

You dream in vivid, violent pieces, glass shards of memory small but razor-edged. In this dream you can see for malms, with an unbroken clarity bordering the impossible and if you just squint you swear you could pick out the veins on the leathery wings of a wyvern wheeling in flight through the cloudless sky of a frigid Coerthan morning. You see everything.

In these little dreams, you imagine yourself smiling with a cocksure tilt to your mouth when you assure yourself aloud, I could take it. You see yourself hefting the familiar weight of the rifle in your warm hands like a threat- not to yourself, but to the gods and the dragonkin gliding unaware over the painted mountains. In these dreams, you are not alone. In these dreams, there is always someone beside you, a dark figure in your periphery you can never quite catch enough of a glimpse of to identify. You can only determine that their presence is a warmth in itself, a weight in this dreamworld to balance your own and every time you try to turn and see, to look, you open your eyes.

Wake up, Huntsman. Wake up, even though you do not sleep in the dark of the night nor in the quiet of a warm day. You’re never certain if what you feel each time you awaken is relief or regret. Memories or dreams, you’ve grown to dread the coming of these contextless slices of a life that is not your own, these shades of an existence you cannot recall. Waking is a blessing. Waking is a relief.

Nothing has changed on the shrouded paths when next you open your eyes. It has only been moments since you blinked. It has only been seconds. Your imperfect vision renders the forest around you in a smear of greens and shadowed trunks like pillars marching out of sight and out of your limited range. Cataracts cloud your remaining eye, painting the world in a haze as though you were looking at it out of smudged and frosted glass, but the figure that has appeared to stand below your perch, the sharp lines of Helivant himself, you can see in perfect clarity.

Here is where your piecemeal dreams cannot compare:

Helivant cuts a vivid, violent figure in the ruined cast of your vision, the lines of his limbs so sharp you could cut yourself on them. Point of fact, you have. Sometimes, like now, you reach out for a lock of his raven’s wing hair but stop short. Your hands are stained, Huntsman, blood and gunpowder caked into the cracks and creases of your fingers under the forest dirt and you cannot touch anything so clean, so neat without staining it irrevocably, so you don’t. So you, empty cold you, must settle with merely watching the sway of his gleaming black hair where the breeze touches it, soft as a lover’s sigh. You watch it until movement on the paths below snags your peripheral like a jagged hook and pulls you back ‘round.

An elezen with pale hair walks the Shroud, and for a moment, for a breathless instant you see overlaid on the world a steel corridor, blockaded by men in shining white. In this waking dream a man with white hair is pointing a pistol at you and you, you, you, the you in the Shroud and the you facing down this execution line, you are deafened by an unending tinny tone squealing on and on and on in the tight confines of your skull. Wonder, distantly, if this is what panic felt like. Your rifle is heavy in your hands; you don’t remember picking it up, but its weight is reassuring, and your finger hovering over the trigger brings you an easy peace precious few things inspire in these grey days.

Breathe, Huntsman. Between one blink and the next, the corridor vanishes, but still you raise the rifle’s stock to your shoulder and level it on the white-haired elezen below. Breathe. Imagine the satisfaction, the vicious fucking relief that surely awaits at the end of your barrel if you could just pull the trigger and render the man below into pulp. Imagine that you still remember what victory feels like. Breathe.

This is not your prey, Huntsman. Pull up, force the barrel out of its deadly focus and up into the trees. Stealth is not the priority here, remember; this is Helivant’s sport. This is a chase.

You fire into the sky. The explosion of the rifle’s report sets the Shroud to buzzing as its denizens scramble to flee or prepare for a fight. The shriek of the countless birds churning above drowns out the roar of your shot, a thousand throats and the beat of a thousand thousand wings making the canopy roil in deafening waves. The underbrush some fulms to your side erupts in the same instant and the space where Helivant had stood only seconds ago now churns, the land crushed under the weight of something serpentine and vast that coils around your dead treant and the surrounding trees before it vanishes into the forest gloom with a terrifying speed.

Breathe, Huntsman. Savour the uneven judder of your cold heart, this palpitation that damns you as much as it blesses you. This is not your quarry, not your white-haired gunman who turns off the light of your broken memory in easy violence, but it is still your duty. Shoulder your rifle again, slide free off your perch and hit the ground running; the quail has taken flight, has fluttered off the path and into the forest maze in his fright.

The hunt is underway.

[houserosaire]

Day 19 of Junelezen: Friends

Some shots of -some- of Silvaineaux’s friends from Priarch’s mission last night. Top picture: with Sui ( @bookbornexiv ) and Lyrin’a ( @hiraethwyl ) visiting Nophica’s Shrine and  asking questions in Gridiania. Bottom Picture starring: Sui, Inwa ( @daylightrays ), Talia ( @reddevil-xiv ), Okuni ( @liminal-storage ) and Louvel ( @louvel-roche ). Not appearing In these pictures because I couldn’t managed to catch everyone clumped up well enough  early in the evening when all were still present, but also very important friends: Edarien ( @thedarknesssings ), Idristan ( @roses-and-grimoires ), Lanceleaux ( @gorgagne-viperidae ) , Rinalys ( @dawning-star ) Latik’a ( @latikaa-renaz ) Raasa (Whose character tumblr I do not know), and Leila Eris who does not have one.

[yareninyeri]

.

[secrets-and-aetherlight]

Penance

The fact that Solenne so rarely allows herself to show weakness just makes her unguarded moments all the more shocking to Michaux. Right now, as she props her elbows on her desk and stares into space, he can feel some invisible barrier crumbling between them. Her next breath sounds suspiciously like a sob. The fine lines around her vivid blue eyes have never stood out so starkly.

“Sol,” Michaux murmurs, reaching out toward her.

She’s not looking at him, but she raises a hand anyway, letting him grasp it in both of his. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I needed to know. Thank you for telling me.”

The soft quaver in her voice hits him like a knife thrust to the heart. 

“It will be fixed,” he assures her. “You know that. Idristan has been through so much, and he’ll get through this too. We’ll find Spider and make her remove the runes, or... or maybe someone else will know how to get rid of them.”

“Idristan has been through so much,” she echoes, finally meeting his eyes. And that’s the point. Her love for Idristan is the kind that can turn dangerous at a moment’s notice. It’s the kind of love that can shatter mountains and burn cities to ash. A love that would destroy the whole world for his sake. And yet so often, she’s had to simply sit by and watch him struggle, with no means of saving him. For a woman of action, this forced inaction is taking a severe toll.

“Tell me again,” she continues, “in more detail, what these runes are doing to him.”

Michaux sighs. “I don’t know exactly. I just know that... his free will has been tampered with in some way.” Again. As if the Ink didn’t fuck with Idristan enough. “He doesn’t seem able to talk about it, which is why I’m here.”

She draws her hand away from his and begins to tidy a stack of papers on her desk. Her movements are mechanical, and her mind seems leagues away.

“I miss him,” she says unexpectedly after a few minutes.

Michaux slowly blinks at her. “He’s not gone. This is just a setback.”

“I miss him,” she says again in a firmer tone. “There is always something trying to take pieces of him away from me. We’ve barely had a moment to breathe since we met. And since I returned from the Far East, it’s like I’ve been doing penance. Like I’m no longer allowed to keep every part of him because I once abandoned him. Or maybe he’s the one doing penance on my behalf.”

Michaux shakes his head slowly. “This is not your fault, Sol.”

“No?” she asks, her voice rising in pitch. “Why can’t I keep him safe? Why couldn’t I keep Richaud safe? Why couldn’t I help my father?”

“Why did I lose my family? Why couldn’t I make Pahja or Lebeaux love me enough to choose me over their dubious passion projects? This isn’t a fun game, Sol. Let’s not play it. Let’s not pretend that we’re demigods capable of ruling over our loved ones and keeping them safe. Idristan’s own choices have led him to this point. Just like Richaud’s choices led to his destruction, and your father’s choices led to his.” Solenne is quiet, seemingly lost in her own thoughts and memories.

“You’re so used to the responsibilities of leadership,” Michaux continues more gently, “that you forget how much in this world is outside your control. You’re doing the best you can. And so is Idris. And so am I. And this problem is temporary.”

She closes her eyes. “You’re right.” Despite her obvious weariness, she finally sounds a little more like herself. Her tone is calmer and more decisive.

Michaux lets out a breath of relief. His message seems to have gotten through on some level. “Don’t let Idris see you like this, all right? Not... right now.”

She nods briefly. There’s a hard look in her eyes now. A bit of her signature resolve coming back to chase away the exhaustion and vulnerability. “I won’t. Thank you, Michaux.”

It sounds like a dismissal, albeit a kind one. “Of course,” he murmurs. He gives her a light pat on the shoulder before turning on his heel and making for his own bedroom.

It’s easy enough to forget that Solenne is made of flesh and blood when she tends to give the impression of having been fashioned out of ice and stone. But he needs to remember it. Because sometimes, she needs him. And offering comfort to a friend who once helped him escape a colorless existence and discover a life worth living is the least he can do.

Mentions: @roses-and-grimoires​, @thedarknesssings​

[hiraethwyl]

@roses-and-grimoires for the giraffe friend

[bootanicals]

💭 for Idris

Lux: “I wonder if Idristan would be cheered by what they’re teaching in the Scholasticate these days... I can’t see the children of the Reconstruction era being quite as taken by his area of expertise as I had once been.”

[daylightrays]

Sw’inwa Raen and Idristan Agache talking over wine in a place Inwa had to watch a man die before.

[thatsadorbsyo]

∞ from Idristan, your choice

Landon @ Idristan

If I Think They Are: Ugly || Plain || Alright || Cute || Freaking Adorable || Pretty || Beautiful || Hot || Stunning

“The white hair makes him appear older than he is, does it not? It’s curious, but he’s not unattractive. Not if you’re inclined to buy what he’s selling, which I can’t say that I am.”

If I Would Go On A Date With Them: Not even if we were the last two one earth || No || Maybe || Eh….Sure || Yes || WILL YOU MARRY ME

“There’s a prohibitive degree of social and personal barriers to this ever becoming a reality.”

If I Trust Them: Not At All || Not Really || Kind of || Yes || With My Life

“He’s made quite sure that I know he doesn’t trust me an ilm, but as I said before, trust has to start with someone. If I have to be the person to reach out, I will be. It is not beneath me.”

If I Care About Them: Not At All || Not Really || Kind of || Yes || Deeply

“We are a means to an end for each other, but for as long as we are working together, I will defend him. It is my duty.”

If I Would Sleep With Them: Not Enough Alcohol in the World || No || Maybe if I were wasted || Maybe || Eh…Sure || Yes || TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF NOW!

“He lacks a requisite degree of femininity that I typically require for such things. Typically. With the right alchemy in your blood, anything is possible.”

My Comfort Level With Your Muse: Keep a Distance || Okay You Can Stand There, But Don’t Touch Me || Let’s Get Coffee and Talk || Let’s Cuddle || I Can Change In Front of You || Let’s Take a Bath Together

“We were able to entertain each other’s company for about half a bell without either tipping the other into the harbor--I suppose that counts for something. Forgive me if I continue to keep an eye on his blade.”

If I See You As: A Stranger || An Acquaintance || A Friend || A Close Friend || My Best Friend || A Crush || The Love of My Life

“I believe, in his strange way, he’s attempting to reach out. Maybe not quite to meet me halfway, but to meet me in some way. It is not unnoticed.”

[roses-and-grimoires]

Prompt #14: Clear

Characters: Idristan, Talan @zoetic-tome, Silvaineaux @houserosaire Warnings: Blood

The darkening sky was clear overhead as Idristan stood across from the man who had decided to insult his husband not once, but twice. In truth, he had been half-expecting him to not show up at all; many were far too craven, once they realized that the man who had decided to challenge them knew how to wield a blade well. But any glimmers of appreciation he might have been his opponent for bravery were dashed the moment that he had opened his mouth.

As they stand across the field of snow from each other, him and the man who had dared to insult his husband, Idristan takes a moment to feel the weight of the rapier. Different, from the one he was used to, but pleasantly solid, the tip slimming down to a vicious point.

He nods once, then looks forward, eyes blazing with enough fury to make their goddess proud. Then, abruptly, he smirks, and lifts his arms out to the sides. Come and get him. If you dare.

As his opponent charges towards him, he steps smoothly out of the way with an near supernatural speed and grace. One of his legs snaps out as he does so, and the other man falls flat on his face into the snow.

A smirk lingers on the white-haired man's face as the rude Ishgardian sputters and shoves himself to his feet, his face red as he looks around and spots faces with hints of amusement. He lunges again, and again the voidhunter dodges, leading him on a merry chase. Every now and then, he follows up with an attack of his own, but they are always measured, controlled. Not enough to draw blood.

He is in control here, and this dance would go on as long as he wished it to.

When he finally grows bored, like a cat might tire of toying with a mouse, the end comes swiftly. A dodge, a sharp thrust, and suddenly blood coats the snow as Idristan rips his rapier from the shoulder of the other man.

His eyes are cold as he turns away, ignoring the crunch as the other man's second rushes towards him. With a careless flick of the wrist he casts some of the blood off his weapon, before handing it to Silvaineaux with an appreciative nod. Then he looks over towards Talan.

"I hope that was enough for you, mon amour." He finally glances back over his shoulder, his lips pursing as he watches the fuss going on behind him. "Because I don't think he's going to forget this for awhile."

[liminal-storage]

#10: Root (Free Write)

Prompt: Free Write Characters: Kuni, mentions of Spider and a few others in Priarch. Note: Huge thank you to @zoetic-tome for giving me a word prompt to get me started.

--------------------

Bare hands spread out, fingers splayed, palms pressed to cold soil. She can feel each grain of the soft, loamy earth and at the moment, that's one of the only thoughts in her mind. Fingers flex and she can feel the roots of some tender young plant tear as they're plucked from the ground.

The earth smells a little damp, its perfume rich and exhilarating. Thick, dark clouds loom overhead and a few small drops scatter onto the soil around her, but she doesn't move. Those few small drops soon shift into a downpour and the more distant trees blur into smoky silhouettes. The silence around her cracks with a roar of thunder, and the wind howls as a storm dumps onto her head.

Now she's wet and a bit muddy, as well as a little cold, but it's still not enough to haul her away from her little ritual. Her fingers curl, seeking those delicate torn roots. She inhales, thirsty for the petrichor fading into the cold scent of the storm. It takes everything in her to focus on getting the roots to elongate and grow, to coax them back into their previous position anchored in the earth. She has not fed her blood to the magic this time, curious if it can be done without.

If it can, so many things will change.

But that's reliant on a big "if." If the magic works, if this anything more than a waste of time on the mud, if she can gather her wandering thoughts to do the task in the first place.

If she can stop thinking about webs and ceilings and misplaced anger. If she can stop thinking of a resentment that has grown up into hatred and poisoned everything it ever touched, spreading like rot. If she can quell her worry about Talan and Idristan and everyone else who'd been touched by that rot. Chaos and tangled thoughts are to be expected after a night like that, she thinks. But she came here to practice and meditate in her own way. These distractions aren't helpful. Worries and concerns won't serve her workings.

Neither will thoughts of the taste of whiskey on Spider's lips, or thoughts of the delicate dance of fingers over her throat.

Had it been anywhere else, with almost any other audience, and under any other circumstances, she'd have parted her lips for a deeper taste, opened up to drink in everything; from the taste of salt and skin to the pain still so obviously rolling off of Spider Secariot. Though that kiss had taken her by surprise, it strummed over her nerves all the same. Alluring and ill-timed, sweet as a perfectly ripe apple infused with narcotic venom.

She's always been a proponent of time and place, though (much to her chagrin), and Priarch's bar right after a meeting probably isn't it. There's the morality of it to consider too. She's been right where Spider is now. Hells, a lot of them have. She knows self destructive when she sees it, can still hear echoes of its siren-call at times.

And none of this is what she came here to think about.

Thunder shakes the tree she's propped herself against and she can feel it rattle her teeth as well as rattling some sense back into her. She chalks her experiment up as a failure, frustrated with her turn of thought. She's never been good at meditation anyway.

Kuni moves to stand and finds that thin, white roots have woven themselves over her legs, tangled tight as the contents of a neglected sewing kit. A tug and she tears free from her own overgrown workings, brushes some dirt from her backside, and starts down the sodden pathway through the trees.

[reddevil-xiv]

Character Summary: Talia/Talan

Alias/nicknames. Redwing, Firecracker, Devil. Princess (mockingly: most, lovingly: Caedh). Lady/Lord Twilight of the Court of Night.

Gender. Fluid. (She/He/They)

Age. 35; 26th Sun of the 6th Astral Moon (Nov 26th)

Zodiac. Sagittarius (Nophica)

Abilities + talents. A machinist, tinkerer, and toymaker. Extensive training as a gunner and as a sniper. Capable of using any gun put in their hands with great efficiency and accuracy. Has some training in dragoon style jumps and exceptionally good at parkour. Trained at fencing, and has some skill with fire, lightning and ice magics. Still growing proficiency with tangible illusions. Has some modest experience with a bass guitar and the violin. Some skill with blacksmithing and shaping of metal in craftsmanship and use of firearms and intricate mechanical devices.

Alignment. lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true

Religion. They don't have a particular faith among the Twelve, even as a form of lip service. Much more recently, they've fallen into the older, paganistic practices of the Fae.

Sins. envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath

Virtues. charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience

Languages. Fluent in common Eorzean, Hingan & Fae. Conversational-to-semi-fluent in Gelmorran & Old/Elder Ishgardian. Smatterings of other languages, including sign languages.

Family. Darien Sergenaux (twin brother), Caedrien Balethorn/Sinnan of the Night (spouse), Idristan Agache (spouse), Alekto (son), Megaera (daughter), Tisiphon (son). Other family lines are messy and unconfirmed. Found family in Sw'inwa Raen (and honestly a lot of Priarch).

Friends. Makes friends easily and loves her friends deeply. Numerous friendships among the members of Priarch. Most notable mentions are Silvaineaux, Kuni and Edarien. Everyone else falls into the lines of friendship in varying degrees.

Sexuality. heterosexual / bisexual / pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other

Relationship. single / partnered / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating yet / it’s complicated

Libido. sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent

Build. slender / average / athletic / muscular / curvy / other

Hair. white / blonde / brunette / red / black

Eyes. brown / blue / gray / green / black / other (violet)

Skin. pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / dark / other

Height. 6′1″ / 6'6"

Scars. They have a scar in the unique shape of a fractal star over their heart. This is the only marking that now maintains across any and every body they possess, no matter what their shape.

dogs or cats || birds or bugs || snakes or spiders || coffee or tea || ice cream or cake || fruits or vegetables || sandwich or soup || magic or melee || sword shield dagger or bow gun || summer or winter || spring or autumn || past or future

A few songs that remind you of them:

Flesh - Simon Curtis

Can You Feel My Heart - Ai Mori & Halocene

The In-Between - In This Moment

Tagged by: @houserosaire

Tagging: everyone's already been tagged. Tag me if you do this, I wanna read!

[shenani-gan]

🛌 from Idris

“Gan you idiot, just sit still.” Idris grabbed the tiny Xaela by the back collar of her jacket and nonchalantly tossed her back onto the bed. 

As she fought and struggled to right herself and try to escape again, a staff swiftly barred her path and a scarily stern expression locked itself onto her. Gan gulped visibly and relented, scooting back onto the bed.

“You developed a fever running about Coerthas without proper gear like a moron. You will rest. Do you understand?” Idris bore down on her, staff in hand, ready to whack her upside the head with it if necessary.

“...Fine.” Gan sulked and pulled her knees to her chest as she settled back on the bed. A few more things--likely obscene things--were muttered under her breath in Xaela. 

Idris focused a withering stare on her for a moment or two before rolling his eyes and setting a bottle on the nearby night stand with a loud thunk. Uncorking the lid, he poured two glasses and handed one to her. 

“Brandy. Drink up. It’ll put you in a better mood.” 

Gan took the glass thankfully, sipping at the alcohol inside. She stared down at it and then looked back up at Idristan with a sulky, pouty look. “... Thanks for takin’ care of me.”

“Yes, well... I’ll be sending you my bill. So save the thanks until then.”

[houserosaire]

∞

If I Think They Are: Ugly || Plain || Alright || Cute || Freaking Adorable || Pretty || Beautiful || Hot || Stunning

"There is no denying that Idristan is very pleasant to look at. Everyone who sees him is surely aware of it, and I am also fairly certain he hasn't missed noticing it himself."

If I Would Go On A Date With Them: Not even if we were the last two one earth || No || Maybe || Eh….Sure || Yes || WILL YOU MARRY ME

"Dependent on context of course. I certainly would not mind meeting him over tea or something to talk. But for anything of the romantic sort I am not looking and I believe he has plenty to keep himself quite occupied."

If I Trust Them: Not At All || Not Really || Kind of || Yes || With My Life

"I believe Idristan would do what he thinks is best. But I am also aware that his ordering of priorities likely does not match mine in several respects. He is emotionally compromised in a direction that concerns me and I don't fail to keep it in mind."

If I Care About Them: Not At All || Not Really || Kind of || Yes || Deeply

"Of course I care for Idristan. We have been something like friends at times I think and he is a countryman. Moreover he is a member of Priarch."

If I Would Sleep With Them: Not Enough Alcohol in the World || No || Maybe if I were wasted || Maybe || Eh…Sure || Yes || TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF NOW!

"Perhaps if things were a very great deal different I would consider it. But I am not seeking any more than I have and I also do not seek such entanglements with people who are already committed elsewhere themselves either."

My Comfort Level With Your Muse: Keep a Distance || Okay You Can Stand There, But Don’t Touch Me || Let’s Get Coffee and Talk || Let’s Cuddle || I Can Change In Front of You || Let’s Take a Bath Together

"I think the level of our ease with each other has fallen off somewhat, which is rather a pity. Still it isn't as though I dislike him or that I wouldn't be interested in hearing his insights into some of our current problems. I do rather suspect he wouldn't like some of mine, however."

If I See You As: A Stranger || An Acquaintance || A Friend || A Close Friend || My Best Friend || A Crush || The Love of My Life

"I like to think that we are still friends, if perhaps more distant friends than we might once have been. I hope that he is well and happy though I certainly feel a great deal of confusion in trying to understand what his life is like now."

[glowinggunmetal]

💭

Somewhere between the first cup of tea and the third cup of brandy, the chatter around the small and secretive apartment had gotten slurred (as was expected), and Luc had suffered 9again) the teasing of his small knot of friends.

And as eyes began to droop, it was like a nodding-off dream.

“You know Lucien, I’m not sure how you do it,” came a familiar voice, amused and friendly at the younger man’s shoulder.  Behind and to the side was a miqo’te - he could study the ear flicks of the signifier, the way her tail moved, and know better than she did, what she was thinking.  At the moment, from the relaxed manner they were lazily moving, she was amused.

“How do you do this, again?”  The miqo’te tapped the issued focused against the small bundle of writes and rods and crystals that the man had made, the knowledge of building it intimately there.  “And what’s the reason?”

Standing, he moved to side-step (with exaggerated care) the focus and pushed it to touch the framework.  “I had an idea for setting this up,” he said evasively, ignoring that it was so real of a dream he wasn’t entirely sure it was a dream.

It had to be.

He was stuck in Azys Lla and no matter how inspiring that was-

- well, it had to be a dream, that’s all.

He was certain this array, which he’d had to have seen someplace, was efficient in a way nothing he’d done before had been.  Certain.  So certain that he’d sweet-talked one of the miqo’te signifiers into taking a short deviation from her patrol to help test the idea out.

And - when she pushed aether into the frame it glowed and more importantly, the two of them whooping in surprise, it held.