#but i had to accept that some ffxivwrite ones are simply too much and too long ago at this point LOL

[superfluouskeys]

whew it's been so long since my inbox was under 100 ily all i just got really behind on comment answering like way too long ago and have never caught up LOL

[heretic-altias]

FFXIVWrite Day 25 - Call It A Day

I have committed the greatest irony and pulled and all nighter writing this. I wish I was joking. Anyway have why Altais can’t sleep lol. Also for that same reason I’m posting from mobile today so sorry if any formatting gets weird.

Don’t know my characters? Here’s a basic breakdown to help you out!

-

Altais had a bad habit. That in itself was relatively normal, who didn’t have at least one?

Hers was simply that she’d work rather than sleep. She would often build and test weapons straight through the night. Or just practice her battle moves. Really just about anything to occupy herself.

When pressed on why she did this, she’d give all sorts of reasons from thinking she was nearly done to just losing track of time.

The real answer? Something she had learned long ago to never express, to never even believe.

She was a coward.

The mind was quick to wander in dreams, and hers had far too much blood to wade through. Go back far enough, and some of it was probably innocent. Spilled solely because of her own distrust. It was easier not to go there. Easier to pretend she could forget.

Once she wouldn’t have even realized how many wrongs she’d committed.She had learned many things over her time with Solar, the foremost thing being that her view of the world, of morals, of people, of everything really was skewed.

And when it came to reflecting on her actions with this new perspective, she was in fact a coward. Even if she wouldn’t let herself think it.

She wasn’t running from the nightmares. Just getting other stuff done. She would believe that no matter what it took.

Unfortunately, the human body didn’t really support this. At some point Altais would pass out. Almost always in her reading loft rather than her actual bed, claimed by exhaustion during research.

And then her mind would show her fire and blood and death until she woke up hyperventilating as if someone had actually stabbed her.

Not that it was all that different from her life she figured.

But she also couldn’t make it stop. A part of her accepted this was just some kind of trauma. But what was the trauma source? Her entire life?

She wasn’t someone who had one issue they needed to process. She was the issue, everything about her life had been a game of life and death since she was born. As far as she knew, there simply was no ‘working through’ your entire life. She was what it has made her, for better or worse.

Eventually maybe she’d understand how to approach it all and rest a little more easily. But for now, she had other things to be doing. The future was more important than the past and she was trying to be prepared for it.

So while everyone else called it a day, she’d keep building, testing, and training under the stars. For now, it was simply her only way forward.

[elegant-etienne]

FFXIVWrite 2021 - Day 2 - Aberrant

CHARACTER: Houmei

WARNINGS: Garlean nonsense. Like, a lot of it.

Here are all of the internal correspondences between the Manius sisters on the dates you specified. It seems that one of them had the perspicacity to delete every document associated with her prior to the ship’s destruction, and I was unable to recover them. You may have to kick it higher up the chain to see the unavailable letters, I am uncertain if those were deleted before they ever reached their intended recipient by an administrator or if they have been locked for security reasons since then.

I am sorry for your loss, but this is where our association will end. I know you will not heed my advice, but I would recommend you discard this information and simply accept your sisters died serving the Empire. There is much about their projects that are still classified, and frankly, I’d rather not see your family suffer more losses for your poking around. Let them die in your hearts as patriots and leave it there. You have a promising career ahead of you. Use that fire in a productive way.

Best.

---

My dearest sister,

My first day on [REDACTED], working with [REDACTED], whom you may remember from our school days. Funny how we all wound up studying [REDACTED]. I wish we could have been assigned the same section, but naturally, I understand the order of these things. I am grateful our talents both serve the Empire.

It seems I’ll have a few subjects, most ordinary, not too different than your studies. We have an au ra male who was recently separated from his mate due to the usual concerns. I asked what happened to the mate, thinking perhaps she was relocated to your section, and my lead told me she had not proved an asset to the program. Whether that means she was discarded, sent to work or sent to entertain grunts elsewhere, I do not know. I couldn’t help but think you would not have made such a blunder - my lead looked at me with such disdain, like I was a stupid child for asking.

I asked how old the subject was, as the notes only said 25 - 40, and my coworker said I should check the insides of his horn for rings. Ha ha. That same coworker made some rather ribald remarks about the au ra’s physique and the dimorphism between their males and females. You weren’t kidding when you said that these scientists were socially awkward at best. I really admire their talent and their contributions, however. I am grateful for the opportunity to work with them, and play my part.

It is my sincere hope I won’t keep shoving my foot in my mouth. How are things on your end of the ship?

---

My dearest sister,

Sorry for the delay in writing. My coworkers told me it would be safe to approach the au ra subject’s tank to feed him, and he bit my finger very badly. He used some sort of Otharian technique to electrify the water and I received a nasty shock and burns. I spent two turns in the med bay. I hope after this, their playful hazing is done. Everyone certainly had their fun.

I am much recovered. But enough about me, are things on your end of the ship?

---

Dear sister,

I am fuming. [REDACTED] was hanging around the tank again, and I am starting to strongly suspect that the rest of the team engages in unsanctioned activities off the clock. When I attempted to ask [REDACTED] about it, he made a joke about how lonely and bored everyone gets.

Disgusting. Doesn’t he understand that we need to carefully control and monitor our subjects? Any additional stress or changes that go unrecorded will botch our research. Unbelievable. This project is far too expensive for this sort of nonsense. [REDACTED] would never stand for it, but I guess we do it differently here. 

Worst of all, the subject spoke to me today. Of course I understood he was technically of our same level of intelligence, but I thought he only spoke Nagxian, or Hingan or Doman - who knows, right? It all sounds the same. In any case, he was pretty lucid and docile today after his temper tantrum last sennight, but then he spoke my name. He said, calmly, “[REDACTED], you know they lied to you about what happened to my companion. And they haven’t told you what happened to the last scientist in your position.”

Eerie. He really did seem so intelligent in that moment. I can see now how our soldiers stray with these folk sometimes. He seemed so gentle, like Skylax back home.

Later, [REDACTED] laughed at me for letting him manipulate me. Of course he can speak our language. That’s part of [REDACTED].

Silly me.

---

Sis--

[REDACTED] broke off the subject’s horns in punishment today. I was disciplined for pointing out that cortisol from the stress will ruin his readings. He’s already such an unusual subject I’ve been struggling to find a baseline reading with how agitated he always is. The thing is, we are seeing manifestations of [REDACTED] but it is unlike any of our previous records. Before the incident, he seemed to have tapped into all of the subjects at once, and was making them wail frightfully. Their eyes were glowing white, and the fluid in their tanks electrified. They are going to move the other subjects to your section, I think, for everyone’s safety. I am worried they will dispose of him rather than handling his unusual manifestations, even if it is the handlers who have produced most of his negative behaviors. There has to be a better way than this. The subject has so much potential.

Long live the Empire.

[CORRESPONDENCE UNAVAILABLE.]

[CORRESPONDENCE UNAVAILABLE.]

[CORRESPONDENCE UNAVAILABLE.]

Sis-

Run the moment you see this. Meet me at the lifeboats. Go.

[endangered-liaison]

FFXIVWrite Prompt #10: Avail

ASPIRANT RECORD: Floriana bas Sawyer

AGE: 16

STATION: Ceruleum Mining Settlement LXIV

MILITARY EXPERIENCE: N/A

OTHER SKILLS: Ceruleum mine breaching; hand to hand combat (limited); bladed combat (erratic, chakrams); Thavnairian dancing

PERSONAL INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT:

-- Always wanted to join the Frumentarius, y'know? Sure, a lot of people call it stupid or childish to want that, and maybe when I was a kid that was what it was. But...I know what you all do, yeah? I'm not just wanting to live like the famous stories. Sure, that would be great, but I know they're unrealistic. I want to work on something bigger than myself, I want to know that what I'm doing is keeping the Empire safe.

I'd love to see the world but again, I know that's not realistic. Even if I got accepted I know I'd probably wind up attached to an analysis team in Garlemald. And I'd love that! Sure, I might have all those big dreams of going on grand adventures to save the world and stop an Eikon from being summoned, but what you are all doing is important. More important than the legions.

I'm sorry, that was rude of me. My brother and sister are both military. My other sister, uh...she died serving. Gyr Abania. You probably have that on your information card already, but... I just mean I really respect what the Legions do. They're important to keeping us safe, and protecting the world against outsiders who'd try to summon eikons and drain the land dry. Parasites.

But I just mean... every Legionary does something important for their empire. Every smith, every miner, every public official. And I want to do something too. But I just don't think the legion is right for me, and I've never been the best at mining. I'm pretty scrawny, yeah? Mining suits my brother, and my parents have settled into it. But I want to do...something else. Maybe the Frumentarius is the wrong path. Maybe I'd be better off trying to become an Eques or a Notarius. A Compulsor. I don't know. Do you think I could be a tax collector?

But when I think of those, when I think of serving the Empire that way... I just don't feel the same spark of excitement that I feel when I think about being in the Frumentarius. You know? I want this. And maybe I'm not the best qualified. Maybe you'd prefer to find your recruits from the capital, or from people with more experience than me. I understand, and I respect that. But I just... I'd really like to be given a chance.

-- My sister? Uh. She was a Decurion at Specula Imperatoris. Maxima pyr Sawyer. I was so proud of her when she got the-

-- Yes, I mean, of course I'd love to get revenge against the Alliance for killing her, but I don't think revenge is really relevant to-

-- If he was in front of me right now? I'd...do my best to kill him.

-- I don't see how that changes the question.

-- Yes, my answer's the same as before.

-- What do you mean, repeat it, you're writing down everything I'm-

-- Fine. If General Aldynn was in front of me right now, I'd kill him where he stands.

 TRANCRIPT ENDS

PRESIDING ARCHITECTUS: Caroline nan Felicites

ASPIRANT POTENTIAL:

 Architectus Magiteci Felicites sighs as she reads over the aspirant's case file for the dozenth time.

She'd seemed to have such unusual potential for their program. But appearances could often be deceptive. After all... the aspirant has barely moved for the past 75 minutes. It's plain to see in the control room. She's just sitting against a wall in the training ground. Silent. Curled up, like some pathetic creature.

Not everyone can withstand the trials. That much is true. In the course of creation, there are some parts which will break. A blacksmith attempting to forge a blade with sub-par materials will find himself with a wasted lump of metal. But she had so hoped that this subject would be different.

After all. A Thavnairian dancer, and one so young? And one loyal to Garlemald, raised in Ilsabard since birth? It seemed too good to be true. All of her answers, rambling and overly detailed as they were, seemed to suggest a young woman with tremendous potential.

But now she's just. Sitting.

It had been more encouraging when she'd been slamming her fists against the wall, trying to break her shackles from her hands or perhaps simply trying to smash a panel open, to no avail. She'd succeeded only in smearing blood over her hands and over the metal wall plates.

But then she'd collapsed, and she hasn't moved in... Caroline checks the time again ... seventy eight minutes.

A disappointment, yet again.

Their country is tearing itself apart from within, and is threatened from without. They need this. She knows that the ongoing conflict in the only reason this program was authorised. The Frumentarius can be so...old-fashioned, in their recruits. Loyalist locals enlisted from the countries they've taken, or former rebels turned into double agents. And then, of course, there were those from the capital. Haughty, imperious and insufferable. Every last one she's ever met. She hates them, truly.

She sighs, yellow eyes flicking to the screens in front of her, then back to her paperwork.

Wait.

She looks up again.

The aspirant is standing up.

She wipes her bloodied hands on the leggings of her jumpsuit, and looks towards the next trial. Caroline can't see the look on her face from the angle of this camera, but from the flex of her jaw she seems... determined? Angry?

She's still studying the girl's face when the Aspirant turns towards the camera. Without warning, her fist swings out. The feed cuts out, lost in static.

Well.

That was an expensive thing for her to break.

The Architectus stays staring at the blank feed for a few moments, before her curiosity gets the better of her. She rewinds the feed, just a few moments. There.

She freezes, pausing the recording at the moment before impact.

The Aspirant's jaw is tight. Sharp teeth are bared. Her eyes, bright green, burn with fury and hatred.

Caroline studies every detail of the image. And, slowly - ever so slowly - she starts to smile.

ASPIRANT POTENTIAL: HIGH

[aethersmoke-and-ash]

FFXIVWrite 2020 - Crux

Crux --

One drop, maybe two, but no more. You want to find peace, not stare down the gates of Seventh Heaven.  A warning applied with a sardonic smile and a lingering kiss to her forehead, something mischievous in moongold eyes as the vial was pressed to her palm. Maybe I'll even join you later. Two drops under the tongue, to help with meditation, had been the instructions. The syrup tasted bittersweet, slightly astringent; cloying, as though he'd managed to distill some unspoken secret directly into the decoction.  Her fingers curled around the little bottle, intricate and pretty, one indulgence among the many Khalil never had far out of hand. Those indulgences had become their own game, though right now less about leisure or languorously spent afternoons -- unheard of just a few moons previous.  Warmth spread through her, tingling at her fingertips and toes, coiling deep into her senses. It was a pleasant feeling, just disconnected enough to help the ever-present tension she carried with her ebb away.  Ashen cheeks flushed, pupils wider - she scarce remembered the trip down the stairs, among artifact and curiosity that watched her with unblinking eyes and unspoken intentions. Candlelight scattered shadows that danced a little darker than they had been before across the stone walls. Entranced, the world around her fuzzier still as she settled among the  cushions she'd strewn about the makeshift study. The bottle was set within arm's reach -- just in case -- though of more interest was the texture of the rough silk cushions under her fingertips, and the nearby skein of yarn left from her last attempt at meditation.  Focus. That was the point of all of this. To turn inward, to reach as she so rarely did for help, for answers. Milloux was only vaguely aware that those same fingers had trailed upwards, curled around the crystal that remained a close companion. So many secrets to share, if only she would reach for them.... Meditation had never come easily to her. Making the mind a still place only invited other thoughts to rush in like the rising tide. Guilt so often mingled with regret, with worry, with insecurity. Of all the things she needed to do. Knitting, as absurd an endeavor as it was, had helped. Her misshapen and uneven handicraft a testament to the evenings she had spent in quiet refuge, the rhythm a calming, grounding thing.  She lifted no needle now, only settled into the cushions. Oh, but this was nicer. 

Fingers had uncurled, placed atop the surface of a still dark pool, sending out ripples along waters left long undisturbed.   The air no longer smelled of incense or of the restless coast. This was older and half remembered - the smell of earth and stone and ancient things. Of memory. Threads of aether, a spiderweb of spun gold laced out in unfurling and deliberate patterns, shaping the contours of the vaulted chamber.  She'd known this place, once.  Had seen it bathed in the full glow of luminescent creatures and childish perspective. She remembered it as large as a cathedral, this place. Still, peaceful, sacred.  Around her, quietly murmured prayers and song that rippled back from the stone, an echo. A reminder that to be here, was to be surrounded by those passed, who lifted their voices too, in shades.

She didn't dare raise her voice now to join them as she hadn't in those memories, and the water went still again, depthless as ink, iridescent, offering only the vaguest indication of her own reflection.  She lifted her hand -- surprised -- but it left no ripples this time, only the lingering glow from where the crystal remained motionless, suspended.  We've never been here together, before.  What is it you reach for now? They weren't words so much as impressions - spoken past a barrier of a language she was certain her waking ears wouldn't have understood if she'd tried. But she understood them, weightless and un-tethered as they were.  They offered no echo, either. Milloux frowned, or at least she thought she did - it's impression seen in the reflection.  There was no answer at first, words considered carefully, and ever steeped in caution. The intention tickled through her, much as the drug had. You want to know how to help him. The not-voice continued. Affable enough, neither male nor female.  I feel it, too.  I wonder if his soul is more willing than yours to listen. Were I - we - not so comfortable here I might be inclined to tempt him... -- I'm not unwilling. No, you're simply scared to take what you want, and what is waiting for you.  What is it you want, little Daughter?  Not for him, but for yourself. The air in the chamber rustled, bringing with it the faintest promise of summer days far above where they now resided. Sun had never, would never, touch these halls. She remembered that, too. Why are you so afraid to take hold of it, when I hold my hand out so patiently to you? Have I not always treated you kindly on this path?

A plea? A cajol? The frown deepened.

Because I --  I'm afraid. -- break everything. I want to reach for more than that. I want to be gentle and kind. I want to mend what I touch. Not... The unspoken words died among other thoughts. I remember this place. You should. You have been here many times before, despite the warnings your mother gave.  You weren't afraid then. Perhaps you are less afraid now than you think. Everything that was holding you back has fallen away.  I want to be like her. You barely knew her! And there is your mistake. There are so many types of kindness in this world. Let us teach your ours, and hers. Your paths were none so different. There was a warmth in that promise, as there had been so many times before. Around them, the quiet song persisted, the words lost to a child's imperfect memory. And him? What if this swallows him whole? I can’t make this choice for him. So don’t. You are resourceful, little Daughter.  There are places to find what his soul seeks, and I believe you already know where to look.  That was merely an excuse to come here. Think on what I say.  And if I do accept? She waited for no answer, perhaps she wouldn't have liked what it would have been. Fingers plunged into the depthless pool, curled tightly once more around the stone.  The song around her had shifted, changed. --- She awoke to the feeling of fingers stroking through her hair, head resting heavy in a familiar lap.  He hummed tunelessly, the sound soothing, reminiscent of what she had heard in the cavern. Something to guide her home, perhaps.

"There you are," He whispered, smirking a little.

Hells, her head felt filled with cotton and her limbs felt leaden. Grounded. Her nostrils, however, were still filled with the smell of somewhere else. Where, though?   Eyes cracked and then squeezed shut once more, even the candles were too harsh.  "Seven Hells t' sennight's end, darlin'....what was that stuff?" --- @khalil-nasari​ - for mention. @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​

[faelune-home]

FFXIV Write 2020 #23: Shuffle

(A/N: Kind of a follow on from what I implied in my last ffxivwrite prompt from yesterday, but now fleshed into an actual fic, since that throwaway line gave me the spark to write this in the first place. Focuses more in on a broad allusions to miqo!Fu’s other jobs, with a bigger segment actually featuring some Astro focus.

Player wise, I’m trying to level them all for the fun to try them all, and for the Amaro mount. Character wise, miqo!Fu definitely only specialises in Bard and Dancer and a little bit Red Mage, but she’s tried everything. Some parts click and other parts less so. She can heal in a pinch if you need it at least.

Prompt def focuses more on the astro side of things with card shuffling, but I’d like to think of it like ‘shuffling through her jobs’ as well. Mostly focused on Alphi’s perspective of my WoL tbh.

I guess as a final comment, just one part of the fic to mention; Alphi being more uncertain about the Dark Knight job is kind of a mix of the wildness of the job itself and how miqo!Fu takes to it, and still some early characterisation of his own mixed in. It’s something that would balance out as miqo!Fufu gets more skilled with the job and less feral as she evens out with Fray, as well as a closer growing friendship.

Set mid Heavensward before the Aery, no spoilers mentioned. Being pre-Dancer unlock level and story wise is also why it stars with saying the favours the bow only.

Word count: 1363

@ffxiv-writers)

Though she favoured the bow, Fufu often liked to dabble in other trades. When questioned about it, she simply said the experience was good for her, expanding her repertoire of available skills should she ever need them.

Even after the hurried exodus to Ishgard, she yet made trips outside the city, returning with reassurances that she was fine, that she’d been careful around the cities, even if she hadn’t even entered them herself. Though it hardly placated him, Alphinaud couldn’t help but still be curious at her studies, even if she treated them like a simple pastime.

The weapons and tools she accrued in her gifted room at the manor for a start -- enchanted crooks and bejeweled staves, sharpened katanas and rusty knives, a serrated axes and magnificent broad swords as tall as himself that seemed to pulse with a heavy energy that made him dare not touch them.

He had once almost tripped over a pile of tomes left in the corner of the room, initially mistaken for library books until he opened one and found the familiar arcane symbols within.

“You’re studying arcanima?” he had asked her after the discovery.

To Alphinaud’s disappointment, she’d grimaced and replied, “A little, but don’t ask for any demonstrations. I’ve been at this for weeks and I’ve only the other day figured out how to summon a basic beginner’s Emerald ‘Buncle.”

He bit back the offer to teach, not wishing to push the miqo’te if she already struggled with the simple elements of the craft.

Nevertheless, she put in the effort to learn and practise her trades all the same. Some few times, the boy was actually able to see her work; one such case was their return to the manor after the trial by combat and her visit to the Archbishop. She’d offered to heal his wounds, and for all she derided herself as a novice, he was well within minutes, scratches stitched together, and the ache in his sides from the grip of the chains faded to nothing.

Another, more terrifying case that still plagued his mind was her rescue of him from a wild bear while traversing the frozen highlands toward the old mill. Where the bear seemed to materialise out of nowhere, Fufu had appeared even quicker, one of those broadswords in hand to gut the bear and cleave it almost in two. The dark spark in her eyes, the way she bared her teeth at the animal, hovering protectively over her friend.

Though he would never say he wasn’t grateful for the safeguard that day, to see her so unlike herself - the woman normally so cheerful and friendly suddenly so hostile and twisted, even aimed at another - he almost would prefer her more harmless surprises such as her sneaking in the shadows to frighten him over seeing that again.

Still, Alphinaud wouldn’t ever tell the girl that. Nor would he wish her to cease in her training. She had the right of it that the skills would be a boon to her someday, plus there was a certain feeling of delight at seeing her so enamoured with a new craft.

He got acquainted with another of her fresh hobbies during a period of downtime in Ishgard. A surprisingly tepid day for the frosted city, he’d been left idly waiting in the Pillars for word from either Cid or Tataru -- for either the Manacutters to be ready for Fufu and Estinien’s perilous journey into the Aery (One that he wished to join them on, but had ruefully accepted their advice that he remain behind), or word from Ul’dah and the next step in finding the Sultana and restoring order to the government.

He almost had nothing else to do but wander and wait, too roused at the events still to come to consider sitting still. His roaming feet took him aimlessly through the city, past the markets, the hoplon, and hurriedly away from the Tribunal, until he came to a stop by the airship landing. A fresh wind blew over the polished stone, bringing a chill back into the upper reaches. At least with Ironworks engineers buzzing around the landing, anyone could alert him to an update from Cid with a quick linkpearl call. Better to remain there for convenience.

Yet just as the thought crossed his mind, a hand shot in front of his face, a fan of cards spread in the grip, the backs facing him. He stepped back suddenly, spooked at the gesture, only to bump into someone behind him, who giggled, “Pick a card, any card!”

Reassured at the familiar voice, he turned, Fufu herself adjusted the card fan to press it flat against her chest, hiding the fronts. She gave him a broad smile then held it out to him again.

“What’s this for then?” Alphinaud asked, looking carefully at the cards then at the woman’s attire -- a white robe and tan long boots, and some decorative gold frames perched on her nose. 

Her ears flicked playfully. “A little something I’ve been practising in my spare time.” He spied the card holder hanging from her belt, and the edges of a globe attached to her back. The design of the cards had already seemed passingly familiar, and now he was a bit more certain.

“Is this astrology? I’m aware the Ishgardians use it to monitor the Dravanians, but this bears a resemblance to the Sharlayan variety.” While not a field he was interested in, the study of the stars and use of magicks in healing was a speciality of his home, he could still recognise it in passing. Perhaps the rumours he’d heard of a Sharlayan dignitary being in the city and telling tales of ‘odd star magic’ had some weight to them. Fufu’s grin widened.

“Maybe it is, maybe it’s not. Pick one!” she insisted, bouncing impatiently on the spot. Finally deciding to amuse his friend’s whimsy, he plucked one from the centre of the deck. A tree.

“Well then, what does this mean?” he inquired, showing her the card while she shuffled the remains. Slotting them back into her holder and taking it back, Fufu stared intently at the image, humming loudly as she thought.

“I can foresee,” she droned, voice dipping deeply in exaggeration, making the boy chuckle, “fire and lightning, and wild winds! But! I also see us all safe back here in Ishgard.” She nodded sagely, a serious look on her face, until she grinned, breaking the effect.

“Is that truly what the stars say?” Alphinaud asked with a mirthful tone, clearly entertained at her theatrics. The miqo’te blinked, pocketing the card into her holster and shielding her eyes to look at the clouded skies, answering, “I’m not actually sure, I can’t see the stars.”

Then with a sheepish chuckle, she added, “And I’ll confess the whole star reading thing hasn’t sunk in much. I don’t get it. But I’m good with the magics! I don’t need to worry about the fortune telling stuff. Not now at least.” She planted her hands on her hips, confidence radiating. Despite her positivity, Alphinaud couldn’t help but sink, thoughts returning to what was yet to come.

“Would I be a poor player if I asked if that was to reassure me? Given the upcoming mission?” He was proud, he’d admit, but she was his friend, and their extended travels through the Dravanian wilds had seen them grow closer. He liked to think at least. He was less afraid of openly admitting to worrying for her.

Her tail flicked. “Maybe a little. But I know you only want us both to be safe.” She turned back to him and ruffled his hair, his protests weak at the act. It was already a habit of hers, dare he think he was adjusting to it. Yet before he could voice his objections to the act, he stopped, seeing her stare intently at him. Then she smiled.

Her smile was warm and comforting, all traces of teasing or exaggerations gone. “We’ll be fine, I promise. No need to look to the stars to say that.”

He hesitated at first. Then a nod. “Of course. I trust you completely.”

[efrmellifer]

FFxivWrite ‘20, Twenty-Three

Prompt: Shuffle, during Heavensward, 1,845 words (this could be considered a non-canon spiritual successor to Entry Eleven from the Wondrous Tails event)

Drinks were already on the table, ready when they were due to arrive, armored and bundled against an especially cold night.

Etien was the first to get to Camp Dragonhead (without already having been there, of course), with no knight’s responsibilities to keep her behind and running late.

Haurchefant had been called from the room to tend to some matter one of the younger knights had needed help with, so when he returned to find Etien seated, spreading out the cards, turning them over and doing tricks, he was a little surprised.

“Eager, are we?”

“Tataru gets the taverns, Alphinaud eavesdrops on the high houses’ gossip, and I get to see what the knights get up to in their free time,” she explained, examining her nails. “Not to mention that I enjoy the company of all three of you.”

“I can only apologize more of us couldn’t join in.”

“Such as?” she asked, folding her hands and resting her chin atop them.

“Oh, I don’t know. Corentiaux, Lucia, maybe some of the dragoons.”

Etien grinned, teeth glimmering in the lower light. “I don’t mind us keeping it small. More intimate that way.”

Haurchefant couldn’t hide the little giggle that bubbled up his throat at that. “You, my friend, must be careful saying things like that. Intimacy. Next, they’ll say you touch a gentleman's hand without gloves.”

She thought about the layers of leather and armor and thick fabric that had been barriers against even the most chaste of touches.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched someone outside of maybe supporting them after a battle.

Nothing came to mind. She wanted to, though, wanted to feel the warmth of a cheek against her palm, or the brush of fingers through her hair.

She had a preferred partner for that sort of thing, if ever she could be so blessed. Despite her intentions not to, she’d looked—stared, even, if the quick, hungry gaze could be called that—at the fingerless gloves giving way to fingertips Etien would give just about anything to kiss even if only once. Though she wondered, didn’t he ever get cold?

Hells, she’d have to kiss his fingertips to stave off frostbite.

She wondered a lot, not just about the kissing issue, but why the gloves were fingerless at all. Did it increase his grip on his sword? She needed her fingers free for bowstrings and lyre-plucking, but even she either cut holes in them or added leather with extra friction.

She didn’t suppose she would ever have a good reason to ask, it wasn’t as though she could simply say—

“Oh, hello, Aymeric.” She tried to keep her voice light as she gathered up the cards she’d been playing with, scrabbling for her drink—oh gods damn, Haurchefant had added port to the chocolate.

Well, this was probably the best group for her to be drinking around; she could trust them even if the drink really was intoxicating.

When Etien had put her cup down, Aymeric greeted her, followed with an “Enjoying that?”

She nodded. “I hadn’t expected the wine, but it’s a nice touch.”

“Ah, I had meant to warn you,” Haurchefant interjected. “Mine apologies.”

She waved it away with a sunny smile. “Estinien coming soon?”

“He was only a few steps behind me,” Aymeric commented, looking towards the door. “So I would think so.”

The door opened, Estinien shaking snow from his hair.

“I would think it would be warmer, if snow was on the way,” Etien said with a little tint of confusion.

“It is not snowing,” Estinien grumbled. “Someone being careless with their Chocobo ran into a tree I was standing under.”

“Is everyone all right?”

“The Chocobo trotted off unscathed, but without its rider. I made my way here as fast as I could.”

“Ah,” resounded from Aymeric, Etien, and Haurchefant.

“So what are the rules tonight?” Etien asked as she lifted the cards again.

The three men shared a look among them. Something had sparked in Haurchefant’s eyes, but Aymeric looked hesitant and Estinien impassive. But no one seemed to disagree with whatever he was suggesting.

“Light armor, no other outerwear,” he said finally.

Etien shrugged off the draping cloak she had on, and unlooped her scarf from around her neck, laying it on the table next to her.

“No helmet, Estinien?” Aymeric asked.

“None of you have one; it seemed unfair if we were playing from armor.”

“Unfair to us, or you?” Etien asked, fiddling with her effects spread around her. She straightened her cup, refolded her scarf, fidgeted with her gloves.

“That depends. I hear you’re becoming a mean hand at cards these days.”

“I’m learning from the best,” she replied.

Haurchefant beamed as he sat down. “Would you like to shuffle, Etien?”

She nodded, scooping up the cards and shuffling them. “I didn’t intend to choose the game, one of you three can choose.”

She kept shuffling the deck as the Elezen debated the merits of a few common card games, or whether specific versions of the games were fair to play with someone who was still so new at the games themselves.

Eventually, they decided on one, and Etien passed the deck over to Haurchefant to cut. He tapped it. “I have no idea where you would have learned to count cards, so I think that won’t be necessary.”

She started to deal.

When she lost the first hand, she shrugged, popping open the clasp of her top, sliding it off her shoulders and letting it drape over the back of her chair.

She was more careful after that, cards close to her chest, playing with caution. And so a few hands passed by, hands she made it through with no trouble.

“I think I prefer this method,” Estinien commented, sipping at his drink while Aymeric tried to slip out of his coat gracefully while still seated. “I don’t lose any gil.”

“Good thing our clothing does not make the pot, then,” Aymeric responded.

Etien laughed softly. “it is, though I would love this,” she added, rubbing the blue material of the shed coat between her fingers. “So pretty. Is it comfortable?”

“I used to find it heavy,” he replied, attempting to be casual. “I have since gotten used to it. Are yours?”

“Comfortable enough. Not too heavy.” She gestured behind her, to the discarded boots. “Getting those on over the bottoms can be difficult, though.”

“It must keep your legs plenty protected,” Haurchefant commented, eyes on his cards. “I fear I must fold this hand.”

He kicked off his breeches, sitting down again. “What have we on, friends?”

Etien piped up first. “My undershirt and my field bottoms. And my socks. And my smalls, of course.”

“Good to know you wear them,” Estinien snorted, huffing harder when Aymeric elbowed him. “Ow. Breeches, gauntlets, my shirt. Everything under that.”

Haurchefant looked to Aymeric. “I still have everything on but my coat,” he responded.

“Guess that would mean you’re winning,” Etien said, draining her mug of port-and-chocolate.

“Certainly, because I would seem to be the least-dressed of us,” Haurchefant said, matter-of-fact. “Play on, friends! I shall watch eagerly.”

The trio laid their cards out.

“That would be impressive, Etien,” Estinien began, “but it doesn’t beat this four of a kind. Aymeric?”

“All I have is a straight.”

Etien stood, shimmying out of her bottoms and taking her seat again. “Who’s dealing now?”

“I’ll do it,” Aymeric said, holding his hand out for the cards. Everyone handed them over, and as he shuffled the deck, letting Etien cut it, Haurchefant stoked the fire.

“We cannot let her get cold, so unused to the Coerthan clime,” he explained, though he hadn’t needed to. All three of them could see Etien starting to shiver in only her shirt and tall wool socks.

Cards spread over the table, chatter accompanying them.

Just as everyone looked up from their cards, Aymeric happened to notice Etien’s ears flatten.

Maybe he hadn’t been paying attention before, but now that he had noticed, it was impossible to ignore. It was unfair to play cards with someone who, no matter how well she coached her facial expressions, would be given away by involuntary body language.

She clearly thought her hand wasn’t good enough to get her through the game still in her shirt. She was already shivering. Something had to be done.

“I-I fold,” he said.

“Surely your hand cannot be so bad that you would drop out immediately!” Haurchefant cried out.

“No, I assure you, it is,” he lied, standing and peeling away his shirt. That wasn’t so bad. It was like training.  Though usually he was a little warmer then...

He ignored the blush rising to his cheeks when he caught Etien’s eyes on him, but at least she looked a little more relieved. And it did serve to warm him.

When she, Estinien and Haurchefant laid their cards out, he scanned over them all before anyone had spoken.

Estinien’s three of a kind would have him losing those gauntlets, especially when Etien’s straight hand had only just edged him into last place.

Still, when she’d handed over her cards, Etien’s hands came to her upper arms, trying to rub some warmth back into them.

“Haurchefant, maybe we should end it here, I’m freezing.”

“One more?” he pleaded. “Besides, I think Aymeric has half a mind to keep you warm. Give her your coat,” he instructed, getting ready for a new hand.

Etien accepted the cards, tucking her tail under her leg and scratching at her ears, trying to disguise any movement they made.

So her sound thrashing with an utter bum hand of only Thordan-high had her sighing heavily, especially up against Haurchefant’s full house (including a pair of Flavien de Fortemps cards, no less), Estinien’s four of a kind, and Aymeric’s royal flush.

That flush became far more literal as Etien shrugged back his coat and her fingers curled around the hem of her shirt.  

She peeled it away, breaking into gooseflesh. “If we go much further than this, we really will be getting in trouble,” she said with a giggle.

“We… would do nothing of the sort,” Estinien replied. “I think I have had enough of cards. Seeing you like that is giving me a chill.”

He had found his voice, but Aymeric had not, eyes practically boring holes into the discarded cards strewn about the table.

Haurchefant was busying himself adding another log or two to the fire, and getting Etien something hot to drink. He had to get her warmed up again, at the very least. And so he occupied himself with that, even though he could tell from the growing tension in the room that he wasn’t only one who wanted to do so, though with very different method in mind.

And he had hoped this would spur Aymeric into action. Especially with how cute Etien looked, all curled up in his coat. She looked good in that shade of blue. Pity.

Haurchefant would just have to keep goading them, then.

[safestsephiroth]

#2: Sway - Esmeralda Mercier (FFXIVWrite2020)

More information on FFXIVWrite can be found here: https://sea-wolf-coast-to-coast.tumblr.com/tagged/ffxivwrite2020+prompt+list

It felt like she had been traveling for longer than she had been alive. Before she could remember, certainly. Her boots carried her on. Looking for something? She wasn't sure what she could be looking for. She adjusted her thick gloves. Green fabric trailed behind her in the wind. It felt like the forest itself was pushing her back, with how it whipped against her.

But then, she had already discovered what an angry wind sprite could do. This was simply weather. That was reassuring, if nothing else.

She followed the road. How many times had she tread this same road? It felt she was going in circles, but it all looked the same. As if the patches of berries, as if the mushrooms, as if all the forest's bounty would appear haphazardly along the same loop. But it couldn't be so.

So what was happening, then?

She spied a lone woman in the distance. Moving near as slow as she was, a leisurely walk towards her.

She looked down, as the woman came into clearer view. A prim and proper hyuran woman with a staff of interwoven vines looked up to the Elezen. As the red-haired Elezen cast her eyes down and seemed to try to shrink out of her own body, the Hyuran woman's back was straight, head raised high.

"Hello, there," she said. Looking up. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh - no-" She was being talked to. But what if- "Sorry, I don't - I don't speak much."

"The forest is dangerous to travel alone. You are no conjurer, by the look of you."

"Ah, well..." She adjusted her gloves again. Cleared her throat. "Excuse me."

"Wait." The word was a command, devoid somehow both of hostility and acceptance of any refusal. "Who are you? I've never seen you before. But you look as if you've been on the road some time."

"Sorry."

"It's not something to apologize for. What is your name?"

This was the longest conversation she could remember. "I don't know."

"Lost your memory?" The hyur's brow furrowed. "I am Esmeralda. Esmeralda Mercier."

The elezen's head tilted, ever-so-slightly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. It's dangerous here, in the forest. Just as it's dangerous in Coerthas. It's time to stop wandering so long. It's time to find answers. It will be painful. It will be difficult-"

The Elezen swayed, side to side, slowly. Heart racing.

"-Listen to me. It will be difficult. But it's past time. It's been too long. Too long alone, in the woods. I can only give you so many answers. You have to find the rest. You know what you have to do. Why fight it anymore?"

The Elezen's breath caught. "Please-"

"No excuses. The time to pretend has passed. Now stand up straight. Hold your head high. Stop running away. Do what you know you must."

A sound from the brush. A hyuran man tumbled out, a bow slung over his back and a quiver at his hip. The Elezen turned to look towards him, taking a step back. Straightening her back, forcing a smile onto her face, raising her head.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," the man said. Out of breath. "Sorry, I'm reasonably sure I lost the boar at some point. So that's good! Ah, who are you? My name is Louis. I'm a hunter, but I seem to have lost my way."

The Elezen turned to look. There was no Hyuran woman.

She took a long, slow breath.

"Hello," she repeated. "I am Esmeralda Mercier. I am a traveler. It is nice to meet you, Louis. I think I, too, have lost my way. Are you headed for a city? I need to find my way to one."

[ffxivimagines]

FFXIVWrite | Prompt #1: Snack

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

Day 1 | Prompt: Voracious | Rating: G

With exactly two brain cells left after the rest were inhumanely murdered via the Warrior of Light's lack of decent human reasoning, Alphinaud isn’t quite sure how he failed to see this coming. This being the insatiable appetite the Warrior had been steadily building since the first time they put Ifrit to the sword. “You cannot be seriously considering a raid on an Ixali encampment to steal food.”

“I am,” the Warrior answers with no less sincerity than a Halonic priest during a sermon, “and I intend to take their crystals, too.”

“Hydaelyn preserve us all,” he prays with no fewer than three coats buttoned and laced over his usual ensemble. “Pray, explain why the rations from Dragonhead are no longer acceptable?”

“I ate a week’s worth in two days,” they respond, saddling their chocobo. It’s an unspoken clause that the Warrior would rather die without a caster on hand to resurrect them than impose on others. Something like requesting further rations from the camp’s overburdened stores would likely send them to an early and overly icy grave from mortification alone.

They don’t mind his questions, but have grown increasingly secretive the more the Scions rely on them for assistance. It’s worrying, but what else can Alphinaud do if not support them. Armed with the Echo and abiding by the whispers of Hydaelyn’s will, he has no doubt that they’ll be safe from Ascian influence. Instead, he worries for their resistance to their own mind.

He catches them chewing absently on bits of jerky as if their subconscious mind can’t quite catch on to the fact that their teeth are made primarily for grinding, not for the vicious tearing they’ve begun to subject the crusts if bread to. Y’shtola has seen it before Minfilia had, that strange and barbaric change in habit, and asked if the Warrior was somehow agitated. It would not be a stretch for them to feel anxious before facing the Ultima Weapon.

They’d simply startled right out of their stupor and gone back to eating with docility same any other Spoken race. “Yes, my apologies for worrying you.”

Y’shtola did not have the heart to bother them if it truly was not so heinous an issue as to warrant a breakdown. She’s watched them carefully as, with each Primal slain, their hunger grew.

Tataru got into the habit of packing them sandwiches and cured meats for the road because she noticed their armor fitting a little looser. “You need to eat,” she’d reprimanded, “or one of these days I’ll have to save you.”

“You’d make a wonderful adventurer,” they’d laughed. “I would be in good hands.” And it had been dismissed with mild fussing and some well-meaning notes hidden in their saddlebag.

Alphinaud feels that maybe this is becoming a serious problem. He hadn’t known what to do when they’d lost weight like they hadn’t eaten in weeks within a couple days of the Bloody Banquet from a handful of missed meals. He supposed something so reckless as storming a Beast Tribe encampment while tired and hungry isn’t the worst of most reckless thing they’ve ever done together (that being when the Warrior introduced Alphinaud to Lord of Verminion) and simply sighs in the most out upon way he can manage.

“Haurchefant will be cross if you aren’t hungry for supper because you snacked too much.”

It’s an empty warning and they share a laugh. “Yes, yes, Alphinaud. I will do my best to not upset him more than I did with Iceheart.”

“That is a tall order.”

“Oh, hush, pipsqueak.”

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[ffxivimagines]

FFXIVWrite 2019 | Prompt 27: Poor Unfortunate Souls

FFXIV Write 2019 | Prompt #27: Palaver | Rating: T

Warnings for: SHB spoilers, very possibly OOC emet, vague body horror (very vaguely creepy mer designs), Emet/WoL, general Emet-Selch related psychology

((If anyone would like continuations or to yell about the detailed designs I have for this, feel free to message or send an ask!))

Emet-Selch knows himself to be a rather generous individual. He has a gift, the power to spin countries into being, and uses it to help others. He charges a price, of course. Any self-respecting witch would do the same. The lawfulness of his contracts is known, each of them fulfilled to the last letter. He is fair with his terms. An eye for better hearing, a name for the ability to shapeshift, a voice for legs. That kind of thing. 

He has seen many an unexpected customer wander into his city, but the champion of Hydaelyn? He’s positively tickled. He flicks some poor, unfortunate specter aside and dismisses them without thought. It wouldn’t do for him to welcome such a prestigious traitor with his home in such disarray.

He does not hurry to greet them, but it is a very near thing. He covers his lack of regular nonchalance with a quick summoning. “Lahabrea.”

His fellow Amaurotine slithers out from Zodiark-knows-where and grins, rows of teeth peeking out from betwixt his lips at the expression. He doesn’t mind how his scales scrape against the walls (and Emet-Selch buffs those! He aims for authenticity since exile and he would suffer no immature immortals ruining it!) when he slithers forward to rest against the smooth surface of some nameless, faceless statue. “What is it?”

“They are here,” Emet-Selch replies, “and wish for a deal. Do not interfere.”

“Your Pers─”

“They are not deserving of that name,” he hisses. “Begone with you and take Elidibus with you. Sentimental fools, the lot of you.” Lahabrea shrugs and swims his way down the halls, cutting out via a window with a powerful flick of his tail. For a snake, he is so very prone to fits of unadulterated affection. Even more so toward Emet-Selch’s ex-intended. 

What a pair they’ve become; an exiled architect and an ostracized sentry of the state. He only wishes he had the person who forced this upon him stuck at his side. They could suffer together through the eons while the world completes its sundered death throes. Him and his actualized lover. 

The one coming to see him, only a handful of times Rejoined, cannot compare. 

They speak to him with hesitance and confidence bundled into one and glance all too openly at his many fins and stiletto-like claws. He can see the tremor in their gossamer aether where it ebbs and surges against his own. It’s too gentle, to intimate of them to let it loose in that way, but they do not seem to notice how they instinctively reach out toward him. Searching. Seeking. 

He will not allow them any of him. They are wholly undeserving of even so much as a fraction of his devotion.

He draws his aether back inside and allows it to burn hot inside his core. It would not be the first time he has spat out boiling water or allowed himself to flare brilliantly. His photophores light as if in warning, a low glow lighting his face eerily when he answers their query for his assistance. “What is it you desire that Hydaelyn has not yet given you? Beauty? A lack of chronic pain? Your true memories?”

“Mortality,” they respond, following after him and struggling against the current he creates. Ah, they’re so small like this. A truly pitiful being. “I know you can grant it to me, Hades.”

He frowns and looks down at them, snagging a long line of octopus eggs as they pass through one of the many caves among his domain and drapes it about his neck and robes as if playing at mortal fashions. There is not a bit of care in his voice when he warns, “Now, that’s a dangerous wish. Are you so keen to squander what little favor Hydaelyn has given you that you would forsake your fate for a Spoken princeling?”

They flush from their cheeks down to their chest, even their fins flicking about in agitation at his guess. “Yes,” they confirm. “What will it cost?”

“Well, only your heart,” Emet-Selch says, “which is a small price to pay, really. I am an exceedingly reasonable man.” He snaps and unfurls the length of a shimmering, golden contract before them. “All I need is your signature right here─” he instructs, tracing a line with one taloned finger “─on this contract and I can begin.”

“A heart, only?”

“Your heart, yes,” he clarifies. “Given willingly. You’ll have it back the moment the contract terms are completed.” He hands them the contract and they read through it. He can all but hear their brain attempting to process Amaurotine language and chooses to play the part of lawyer to break it down section by section. By the end, he’s tired and dead set on keeping them within his grasp (which is to say, within the Tempest. All those on land are far from his reach unless he is in the mood for a masquerade). It’s a shame they aren’t quite what he can trust with his beloved’s memories quite yet. Maybe one or two more Rejoinings and they would have been a passable vessel for such knowledge. In the meantime he asks, “Do you accept?”

They flounder before accepting and signing with a flash of aether from the tips of their fingers. “Three days. You’ll give me back my heart in three days.”

“As soon as the contract is fulfilled, yes,” he agrees. “Now, be grateful. I’m giving you a chance at mortality like your dearest little… what is its name again?”

“G’raha.”

“Like your G’raha,” Emet-Selch continues. “I do believe you’ll find it lacking, but never let it be said that I am not, at least, kind.” He sorts through a great number of materials, tossing potables and herbs into a cauldron of sorts, and pays no mind to the worryingly acidic taint to the water that is a result. Hydaelyn’s champion simply sets their jaw and watches him brew them the curse fit to steal their heart and grant them such a handicap as true mortality. They can already bleed. What else could they wish for? Death? A want to grow old? Wrinkles are passé among that society as much as they are among Amaurotines.

He reaches toward them and they press their hands to their chest when their heart jumps. He would have it as collateral at the least. It’s a foolish endeavor, their want to court and live with that Allagan prince (nevermind how Emet-Selch had allowed his family such a thing as the schematics for that empire) but he does not break his word. He’d hold their heart until the contract is fulfilled one way or another. 

If they manage to have their love reciprocated, he will give them back their heart and watch the Allagans crumble just to bring them despair. If they fail, well… he can keep all of them. It’s a win-win situation when either outcome will have them come crawling back to him like the imitation immortal they are. 

He pulls, rending their vital aether from their chest and watching their magic short circuit at the loss. They could die without, but that is none of his concern. It wouldn’t break the terms and he would still have what he wanted. With something like their heart, he could find the remaining pieces of them and slot them all together by force. The vessel may have perished, but he is not above making them a new one (a better one, the one that matched him in size and prowess). 

He inhales, consuming what they’ve given, and the cauldron fizzles, aether settling down into a stable curse. “Come here, little one, and let me grant your wish.”

They do and he watches them change. What blasphemy it is to discard their semi-blessed form for something so wretched as legs and a need for air. Their fins run ragged, thin membrane melting into the waters while bones merge and shift, until the thing before him is some combination of man and immortal. 

They struggle, a hand already wrapped about their throat for need of oxygen, and he allows them a breath of it in a current to sweep them off to the nearest beach. He settles down and watches, day by day, as they struggle against the growing stagnant aether in their body, limbs leeching of all color and veins turning golden. He watches them press closely to that princeling and kiss him, believing it to be a solution to their need for love, but he simply stares at them and asks if he knows them. 

They had dragged him from the depths and imbued his soul with their own aether and he does not know them? Emet-Selch laughs to himself. How frail mortal minds are to be manipulated by a lack of that same life-giving aether. Only someone like his Persephone could doom themself so thoroughly. 

He watches them transform back and rises from the waters to collect them. “Have you had enough fun, little fool?”

They quake at the reality that they’ve failed, but their heart rushing back into their body is more of a concern when it sets recognition filtering through their princeling’s eyes. He reaches for them, attempting to take them back and to give them the love he holds, but Emet-Selch simply snaps. 

They vanish from the land and the Allagan empire falls the very next turn of the century, a newborn immortal nestled among the halls of a necropolis oblivious to that which they’ve left behind. “Dearest Hades, have I been gone all that long?”

“Only a few millennia, nothing much. Elidibus has missed you.” He offers a hand when he asks, “Would you like to visit him?”

They smile, happy and oblivious, and take his hand.

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