#klynkwriting

[blackrose-ffxiv]

19. Weal

CW: Needles (non-hypodermic)

"If you do not stop squirming and whining I will give you something proper to whimper about." The chirurgeon threatened, fingers curling tightly around the wrist that he had pinned to the table. A small dining table where the remains of afternoon tea sat a short ways away growing cold in its neglect. Medical tools and tinctures scattered between plates and saucers. He gripped firmly enough that the points of nails manicured to wicked points began to bite into skin. "It is unseemly for a Knight." The title was spat as though it was a four-letter word.

The Knight forced himself to still, his gaze turned aside to avoid watching the other work. It was never pleasant and sometimes it was better not to know when treatment would resume. How many bells had this been dragging on for now? Barely even one, if the nearby chronometer was to be believed yet it had felt like an eternity.

"If you had simply come to me immediately, we could have avoided all of this. A fresh wound is far easier to treat than one already several moons' healed." Lebeaux continued to chastise as he lowered his eyes back down to his work. "Fixing or removing scars is so much more tedious and time-consuming than preventing them to begin with. I suppose painful as well, if your carrying on is anything to go by." He noted before he slipped another long, slender needle into the damaged skin along the taller elezen's skin and drew another quiet noise of protest from the impatient patient.

"I do not mind the scars. Is it not stranger to be a survivor of the War with only the one? It speaks of cowardice, of fleeing the field rather than risk injury..." Anselme countered carefully, turning to look back at the chirurgeon. As soon as he turned his head it was immediately turned aside again with the force of Lebeaux's backhand. While the strike itself smarted, it was the seething anger he'd seen in icy blue eyes before the strike that hurt far worse. He lifted a hand absent-mindedly to gingerly touch the weal already rising red and angry along a sharp cheekbone. The contact stung fiercely, but it was nearly a pleasant distraction compared to the pain when the chirurgeon resumed treatment.

"Why is it honorable to bear the evidence of your mistakes in your skin for all to see." Lebeaux demanded, directing searing aether into the needles lined up to create a precise point of focus under scar tissue. "Where is the glory in having to be reminded of your failures each time you catch your reflection in the looking glass." He continued as he worked. An argument they had time and time again without ever reaching common ground. The discoloration slowly burned out of the keloid to leave it matching the skin surrounding it, though the raised mark remained. Near-invisible save for close inspection or direct touch.

"Nonetheless, you yourself agreed to assist me however I may need. Are you intending to go back on your word." Lebeaux accused, suspecting the Knight was no longer listening as Anselme had lowered his forehead down to the table and begun banging his other hand slowly against the surface with his fingers clenched into a tight fist. Firmly enough to rattle teacups and silverware. "Stop that. Would you rather I dug the scar tissue out and sealed the skin behind it."

"... no." Came the miserable response, half muffled against the wooden surface. "To both." Slowly he picked up his head, trying to distract himself by changing the subject as he looked to his brother again. "I think you have mastered the technique. The coloring has not come back to any of the scars you have treated. Is it not already perfected? Are you intending to use it on-"

The question was left unfinished and more certainly unanswered, silenced by a firm strike to the other side of his face to balance the reddened skin. Indicating that Lebeaux would not be fielding any more questions. Anselme sank lower in his chair to rest his chin in the palm of the hand not currently pinned to the table. His palm digging firmly into a freshly-stinging cheek until it near made his eyes water. The familiar pain a welcome distraction from the burning in his shoulder as well as the ache in his chest.

[eights-of-spades]

20. Hamper

It wasn't easy walking the straight and narrow. Playing by the rules and keeping it all on the up-and-up. Real proper-like. Up before dawn and out to put out the day's figurative fires for an alchemical venture that was slowly sinking and taking him down with it. Back well after dusk to scrape together a meal and pore over the ledgers he had brought home. What made it even harder was how this fully-diurnal schedule was at perfect odds with the other Keeper. They were two ships in the night in the truest sense, just missing each other constantly, sometimes for a sennight or more before the stars aligned to allow their paths to cross. Something one would /think/ would happen more often when it came to a fate-witch and the luckiest catte ever to prowl the jewel of the desert. Yet still the fates and stars and the ruthless god of commerce conspired against them.

Nonetheless Eight found evidence near constantly of Rashk's presence. Leftovers of meals he prepared gone from the icebox. Long, dark strands clinging to pillows he could almost imagine were still warm when he returned home at night. Fresh fish wrapped in parchment in the kitchen or shiny little trinkets left around the house. Scattered paperwork neatened while he was out. The last place he had expected to find such evidence was in the laundry room.

Eight dumped out the hamper of clothes, sorting them out as he hummed a tune he'd heard long ago. A poorly remembered shanty filled in with bits of other melodies to make an off-key jumble of sound. Work clothes, home clothes, crime clothes sorted into piles rather than any sensible method of sorting laundry. He didn't dare wash Rashk's things, frothy bits of silk and convoluted straps made for a disaster when the rogue attempted and those things were /expensive/. Yet something caught his eye when he pulled a shirt out. A strange smudge of black right across the front of it. The humming stopped and the rogue picked it up, bringing it closer as he rubbed at the mark with his thumb.

It smeared easily, made immediately worse by the rubbing. But from this close he could see more strange marks on the crimson fabric. Powdery grey and shimmering silver. Flecks of gold. How in the hells? After some mulling it finally it dawned on him and a grin slowly spread across his face until it split to reveal small fangs. He held the shirt up and surely enough, the marks aligned near perfectly with his mouth and his eyes. From this close he could also smell faint traces of alcohol.

The scene played out clearly enough from there… Rashk had come home after a night of drinking and when he hadn't found the rogue at home he'd settled for nuzzling into the next best thing; the clothes that still carried his scent. Eight held the fabric close, pressing his own lips to the dark smudge before he balled up the shirt and tossed it into pile of laundry. Mayhaps it was about time he took a vacation from working so hard being proper-like. Mayhaps there was something more important he was losing sight of. Mayhaps he should just let it burn…

@guttergodsknife

[chief-mourner]

15. Portentous

"Ohh, er, yes… An ill-omen, indeed. Something…. terrible… surely will follow…" Came the solemn promise drifting up from somewhere between the lowered brim of an overly large hat and the hem of a tall collar. Long fingers ending in dark nails moved over the table performing a strange ritual. "Portentous… of a dire fate…" Jyhun continued to intone as the items he was moving around clattered and clanked.

The Xaela that wasn't covered head-to-toe in heavy black fabric sat across the table with arms folded simply stared flatly, entirely unimpressed with what was going on in front of him. The 'altar' was just an Ul'dahn cafe's street-side table and the 'ritual' tools were simply the dishes and cups that had been involved in the midday meal they had eaten while waiting for Jyhun's alleged contact to arrive. Nayan had knocked over a small dish of salt when he had slammed his fist against the table in irritation at the other's lack of urgency throughout the meal moments prior… and now the thaumaturge insisted they were going to have a terrible tragedy visited on them if he didn't perform his convoluted ritual. Which seemed to be stacking up every item on the table into a precarious tower.

"You are stalling." The Hingan hit-man warned, the words growled low on his breath. "There is no contact. You were hungry. What have I told you about wasting my time…"

Jyhun was silent, lifting his eyes only when the tower was tall enough that he had no other choice. It was missing one vital piece. One key ingredient. It arrived in the form of a pair of cups of coffee. Richly dark and enticingly aromatic served in small cups. The mage lifted his cup up and placed it at the very top of the tower. There. The final piece. "I'm… almost done…" He promised the impatient au ra, heavy fabric rustling as he gave a small nod. He took his hands away, waiting to see if it would fall. The tower stood, swaying dangerously yet upright.

That was the moment Nayan's patience ran out. He started to stand but the moment he rested his hands on the table to push his seat back, Jyhun's own hand darted out. He yanked on a fork that served as a lynchpin and with that small item removed the entire tower came toppling down towards the fist-fighter. Leading with a cup of very hot coffee that splashed onto him from the chest down. The enforcer leapt to his feat with a hiss, looking down as the burning-hot liquid soaked into his shirt and trousers.

Amidst the shattering of plates and the growling of one very annoyed xaela, there was jingling of charms and a clatter of bootheels. Jyhun had bolted to his feet as well and taken off down the street, clutching his hat to his head as he tried to flee the Enforcer with the fork still clutched in the other hand. Wheezing quietly with the effort of making his escape after fulfilling his own prophecy.

Nayan's fingers curled angrily into the fabric of his shirt as he held it away from his skin, ensuring it wouldn't burn him as it cooled. Yet still the beginnings of what may have been a smirking smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The game was on. He counted out the seconds. Knowing precisely by now how much of a head-start he could give the Thaumaturge without allowing him enough time to slip away into a convenient flow of aether and escape. Three. Two. One. Time to re-introduce Jyhun's face to the cobblestones and remind him just what he had told him about wasting his time.

@guttergodsknife

[iron-roots]

16. Jerk

Anselme shifted impatiently from foot to foot, lowering his hand after knocking firmly on the door. His breath visible in the chilly Coerthan air, hands clasping together to rub gloved fingers for additional warmth as he waited. After what felt like a short eternity the door finally swung open and immediately the Knight's already sunny countenance warmed to supernovic levels of cheerfulness.

"There you are, if we do not hurry we are going to be late." The chirurgeon grumbled, looping a scarf around his neck to cover primly pressed lapels and a cravat tied with the precision befitting his profession. His hair combed to a perfect sheen and not a single hair of the whiskers that crept along his chin out of place. Ishgardian propriety at its finest. After looping the scarf into a neat knot he finally glanced up and stopped short. "Oh, Anselme…" He sighed, brows knitting together. "We cannot go with you looking like /that/. Come in." Lionnet ordered, reaching out to grab the front of the Knight's jacket to drag him into the room.

"How did you even manage that? You appear as though you were harried by a pack of wild dogs the whole way over. Did you not look in the mirror before leaving?" The medic continued to complain gruffly without any real ire behind it. More complaining just for the sake of it as he hurried to fetch a comb and pomade. "It is a /wedding/. The guests must still appear presentable." He continued, beckoning for the much taller man to lean down so he could fix his unruly hair.

"Ah, well, I did not want us to be late so I hurried…" Anselme offered his excuses, his smile not diminished in the least by the other's admonishments. In fact he seemed amused by them as he tilted into a polite bow so the chirurgeon could reach. Lionnet's assessment was fair. The Knight's hair looked as though he had just woken up and not in the artfully tousled bed-head manner though it was quickly tamed with a few quick swipes by a practiced hand.

"The state of your cravat! Did you even tie it or have you simply balled it up and let it lay where it may?" Lionnet continued as he carefully undid the tangled mess to straighten it out properly. His hand moving deftly to cross the long ends of the neck cloth into a knot of appropriate complexity. His movements had slowed somewhat as his masterpiece neared completion, eyes on his task even as his hands shifted slightly. Taking perhaps a few moments longer than strictly necessary to adjust the lay of the Knight's collar once the knot was finished. Fingers trailing gently just next to bare skin without touching.

Anselme was still as the other worked, tilted forwards as he was he had a perfect view of the serious expression on Lionnet's face. Close enough that when he inhaled it brought in the clean scents of the other man's soap mixed with the warm notes of his preferred cologne. The combination nearly drowning out the smell of medical tools and alcohol that had always put him on edge around any other chirurgeon. He was silent. Perhaps if he didn't speak the moment may last just a little longer. The silence stretched out between them until finally Lionnet lowered his hands and lifted his eyes. Sapphire blue meeting summer sky for the briefest of moments before both of the Ishgardians looked aside in opposite directions as though caught peeping at something unseemly.

"My thanks, Lionnet. You have an eye for such matters." The Knight said quickly as he straightened up, resisting the urge to stick his fingers in the hair that had just been painstakingly tamed in his embarrassment.

"Of course. Now we are most certainly going to be late, let us be on our way." The chirurgeon responded with a light shooing motion.

Anselme followed the shorter man out onto the street, pulling the door closed behind them as he smiled warmly. It had been a fleeting moment but it was precious seconds he would treasure. It had been entirely worth standing outside the other man's door in the cold before knocking; one hand in his hair to ruffle it to a wild bird's nest as the other jerked ruthlessly at his poor cravat to turn it the perfectly passable knot into a tangled mess. Would Lionnet notice if he were to start doing it every time before visiting? And if he did… would he say anything…

@vierafication

Loose adaptation of the story behind this image

[blackrose-ffxiv]

1. Envoy

Fifteen turns was a terrible age. The age were the comfort of private lessons taken in the solitude of one's own home were being exchanged for 'real world' experiences. Squiring to an accomplished knight, apprenticing to a master craftsman or, in the case of Lennaux, enrolling in seminary. A terrible age to be cooped up with equally terrible children learning how to behave as adults in a terrible place. Studying theologies and the history of a war that had spanned for generations. Every student at the Scholasticate's fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers and so on had served that war effort in some way or another. When death and destruction were constant companions at birth, it was never a matter of 'if' bad news would happen but rather 'when'.

The somber envoys were a familiar sight for those attending classes within the Scholasticate's hallowed halls. While the lesser-born nobility may receive a single courier, those even less important often received only a letter, the solemn approach of a dark-clad entourage was the sign that someone of some import had died. No sooner did they enter the grand entryway did the rumors begin to fly. This time their somber march took them to the courtyard where Lennaux was, appropriately enough, holding court over the small group of fellow future-clergy he had bullied into serving as his associates. Never 'friends'. A pleasantly warm late spring drizzle had forced them to take refuge under an alcove as idle chatter of summer holidays whiled away time between classes. Talk of the warm moons spent out at the country estate or some relative's hunting lodge in the mountains. The chatter faded away as the envoy of three entered the courtyard under heavy cloaks against the light rain. One stopped to wait in the arching doorway as the other two made their way towards the small group. A few quick calculations of which of their merry little band could have warranted such a visit resulted in the realization that they were there for him.

"My father or my brother. Place your wagers quickly." Lennaux muttered under his breath.

"Brother." The others answered in near-unison, having already heard tales of their 'ringleader's' foolhardy elder sibling.

"Well, that certainly takes the fun out of it if no one will bet against me. Very well." He complained quietly, falling silent as the knights approached and immediately knelt respectfully. "A mourning period is certainly going to put a damper on my summer plans..."

"Young Master Lennaux de Haillenarte, we have been sent to bring you home on an urgent matter." The first knight explained as she rose back to her feet. The second knight offered a sympathetic smile from under the hood of his cloak. Neither would be so crass as to simply state that there had been a death. Nor to announce outright who it may have been. It could yet have been a cousin or uncle for all he knew.

Lennaux nodded solemnly, adjusting the lay of his hat before he stepped out from under the alcove into the rain. The third knight did not move as they approached, allowing the first two to pass before he stepped out to block Lennaux's departure. The student looked up slowly, icy pale eyes rimmed with dark lashes settling on a face he did not recognize at first. His father's strong chin and thick brows paired with his mother's summer sky blue eyes. A man grown now, though he had been only the very same age Lennaux was now when he had last seen him this close. Those bright blue eyes were not red from grief and his jaw was set in a grim line. That answered the question neatly. Terrible news for a terrible boy who would now even more quickly have to grow up into a terrible man. His father was finally dead.

"Lennaux, I-" Anselme began, yet he was never allowed to finish the sentence. The younger brother threw his shoulder forwards into the knight's chest as he pushed past him. Long strides carrying him to catch up with the other two messengers without a word. Anselme stepped aside with the blow, allowing Lennaux to pass unimpeded. He watched him stalk away rather than following immediately. The shoulder-check had not hurt in the least. Truly it would not have even moved him out of the way. It had been the pure, glacial hatred in his younger brother's eyes for the brief moment their gazes met that pained him far more deeply.

@iron-roots

FFXIV Write 2023

[eights-of-spades]

4. Off the Hook

"Dinner always tastes better when you catch it yourself!" Eight had boldly boasted as he sat cross-legged on a pier with an assortment of makeshift fishing gear strewn about him. His grin bright and a sparkle in mismatched eyes, though the off-kilter tilt of dark ears paired with a vicious flicking of his tail hinted that he was growing frustrated with the attempts.

A hook abandoned in a tree branch where it had been lost. A length of wire generally used for more dubious purposes. A stick. A stolen earring for a sparkling lure and a bit of spiced mole jerky for tastier bait. All of it came together to make a sad looking attempt at a fishing pole and the starry-haired Keeper did not seem impressed by his dusty companion's masterpiece.

"It's gonna work!" Eight insisted, settling himself down on the dock's edge to dangle his feet in the water and cast his line to secure the two miqo'te a fine fish supper. Rashk was not convinced, yet managed to keep his complaining to a minimum of whining... and none of it very serious at all. There were worse ways to while away an afternoon than lounging by the water.

The line did not twitch at all for the entire afternoon as they chatted, drank and ate up the rest of the myriad snacks they had brought to use as 'bait'. Not that Rashk suspected fish really cared for rice balls and jerky, but Eight had insisted. Conversation had calmed to a comfortable silence and during those quiet moments the miqo'te forgot the fish all together.

By the time the sun threatened to slip below the horizon, Eight had sprawled out on his side, a cheek propped up on his palm while Rashk leaned back onto him. His head resting on the rogue's side and the generous fluff of his tail draped over the taller Keeper's legs as his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm of light sleep. Eight's fingers stroked idly through raven curls, blinking a losing battle again a nap of his own.

It was then that the pole bent, wire pulling tight with the surely-impressive size of the long-awaited catch. Ears perked immediately but Eight did not move. Rashk shifted slightly against him and the decision was made. The rogue curled around the smaller keeper, twining his tail around the other's as the line went limp again.

Eight could always tell him later he'd caught a mermaid while he slept and kindly let her off the hook in exchange for wishes...

@guttergodsknife

[blackrose-ffxiv]

5. Barbarous

"You are a vile, feral little backwater heathen." Lebeaux spat the accusations through bloodied lips. "A barbarous beast playing at being spoken." Despite the crimson streaked along his teeth and mouth, he seemed less concerned with that and far more concerned with scrubbing green-black bile spattered across his expensive white coat jacket. At least he assumed it was bile, considering it had been expelled from the maw of a carbuncle that was far less 'construct' and far more free-form aether experiment gone horrifically wrong. "Unfit for society, polite or otherwise. Drag yourself and your abomination back to your swamp, Rinha'li."

A few steps away that eldritch summon shivered and quaked in an unsettling wobbling motion as it stood sentinel between Lebeaux and a miqo'te clutching his hand to his chest as he pressed flat against a bookshelf. The arcanist's richly furred colorpoint ears were pinned flat against unkempt hair similarly two-toned in black and white. Large, round glasses sat askew on his nose and the look on his face was exasperation rather than fear. Bright green eyes wide with confused annoyance. The string of insults were nothing new, it was practically how the Ishgardian greeted the Keeper at this point. But the cause of it was irksome, to say the least.

Rinha'li lowered his uninjured hand from the one he was coddling, thrusting it forwards to display the crescent of bloodied tears in his skin along the edge of his hand.

"I am the b-b-beast?!" He demanded. "For d-d-defending myself with a c-construct?!" As Rinha'li spoke, Lebeaux mocked him under his breath. Tittering along after the stuttering that had grown more pronounced in the voidmath's agitation.

"You b-bit me."

@black-omen-born

[eights-of-spades]

23. Suit

Smoke hung heavy in the small bar tucked away at the back of a used bookshop. The sort of place you could only get into with a knowing nod and a magic word to make the shelves swing open to reveal a haven for sinners and their sins. In a few bells' time the place would be full of laughter, the clinking of glasses and half-hushed chatter about the next job. Yet for the moment there was only this card game. Two miqo'te sat at either ends of the round table littered with the debris accumulated throughout the length of their game. Masks set aside so they could both drink from glasses of dark liquor already near-drained with accompanying bottles. An ashtray where the remains of a fragrant cigar burned idly. Maps and notes for the upcoming job. Then on top of it all was the bets...

Mismatched rings, unmarked vials of reagents, bits of string, a packet of aldgoat jerky, one harlequin-patterned sock that had been missing for a sennight, an Ishgardian teacup, candies one would find at the bottom of an old woman's purse and the crowning glory was slightly dog-eared triple triad card. That final bet was flicked onto the pile with a graceful turn of Charlatan's wrist. "Call." They declared smugly.

Knave flashed a dagger-toothed grin over the top edge of his hand. "Real shame 'bout that." He apologized sarcastically as he laid out his hand onto the table. "Full house." He declared proudly as he displayed a hand with a few too many cards that matched suits.

"You're right. It's a real damned shame, indeed." Charlatan agreed as they laid out their own hand with a flourish. "Royal flush." They declared, proudly displaying an impressive array of mismatched cards that even included a Lady and a Lord amongst the usual Kings, Queens and Jacks.

"You dirty cheat, you stole that Queen that from me!" Knave exclaimed with a cackle as he rose to his feet, slamming his hands down on the table hard enough to rattle the bet pile.

"You stole it from me first, so I stole it back! All is fair~" Charlatan yowled smugly in return. "I'm just the better thief. Pay up!"

"I'll bet you pilfered my pocket aces too! Lemme check!" Knave laughed as he dove across the table towards the smaller miqo'te in a flash of black and red. Scattering the bet pile and the remaining cards in a flutter of paper.

Charlatan screeched in mock-horror though the sound quickly dissolved into laughter as the miqo'te tussled, rolling off of well-padded bench seats onto the floor. "I played them two hands ago and you didn't even notice!!" They howled. The play-fighting and pocket-checking dragged on for some time until the contents of both of their waistcoats, sleeves and so on were littered across the hardwood floors with the two panting miqo'te in a tangle at the epicenter of the mess.

Knave flopped over onto Charlatan with a sigh, signaling the end of the post-game brawl and the other miqo'te responded by swatting the taller thief in the face with their tail. Leaving a smudge of white dust on one cheek. "Alright, you win this time." The red-and-black cad allowed with a noise akin to a chainsaw attempting to start, and failing miserably. "Someday we're gonna write the rules down proper-like then your days are numbered-" He threatened.

"I always win." The Charlatan countered, curling lazily around the other. "Can't write the rules down if we change 'em every game. Where's the fun in that?" They teased, ears perking at the sound of footsteps in the bookstore beyond. They groaned and started to disentangle themselves from the pile. "Alright, mask up. Now for the real games..."

@guttergodsknife

[blackrose-ffxiv]

13. Check

Midday breaks from duties tended to stretch on to half-day breaks on the few occasions Lebeaux and Rashk were getting on well enough to take them together. It was rare indeed to catch the catte skulking about the Order during daylight hours and rarer still that he did not flee via the most convenient escape route when he heard the familiar clicking of the Ishgardian's heels on polished marble floors. On those days bells were whiled away at a local cafe, sipping overly sugared teas and dueling dessert forks over last bites of sweets as they traded cutting commentary on the fashions of who wandered by on the nearby street. By the end of their extended break the cafe staff were oftentimes glad to see them leave.

This day was a bit stranger than usual. After they had long since worn out their welcomes a strange slip of paper arrived alongside the final dish of sweets. It was politely folded in half and placed face-down in the center of the table beside the plate. Rashk casually ignored it as he grabbed for a handful of tartlets while Lebeaux was staring at the slip of paper in open confusion.

"What is this, then." The medic asked as he reached for the slip and turned it over. "I suppose the serving girl was simply so enamored that she is inviting me over later." He decided as his eyes drifted over the note's contents. Rashk scoffed, stuffing a few more tartlets into his pockets. Knowing full well what was going on there. It was not an address, nor an invitation but rather a list of everything they had eaten and drank that afternoon. Alongside of which was a series of numbers. Underneath that was a similar number listed from previous dates, all in all totaling a rather impressive sum.

"It's a check, Lebeaux." Rashk drawled sweetly, anything else that hadn't been eaten already on the table secreted away into various pockets. "It tells you how much you have to pay for what you've eaten." He explained as though dealing with a particularly slow student. The miqo'te settled his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his palm, fluttering his lashes. "And since you've picked this one up, you're paying it. Thanks for lunch." He added on, painted lips curled in a delighted smile.

"That is impossible. I have a tab. It should be sent directly to the Order and taken care of by the Sister's assistant." Lebeaux explained, incredulous. The nerve. The audacity. Expecting him to pay for his own meals?!

"Seems like your tab's been closed. The dear Sister must be mad at you. If you can't pay it maybe they'll let you work it off washing dishes instead of calling in the Brass Blades~" Rashk continued to tease, absolutely delighted with this twist.

"Hardly. There must be some mistake." The Ishgardian insisted, turning in his seat to snap his fingers for the waitress's attention. Instead it was a portly lalafel that waddled over, a falsely-apologetic look on his face. "Now see, there is a mistake here. My bill should be sent directly to the Order of Nald, specifically to Sister Irara…" When Lebeaux turned to ensure Rashk was going to back him up he found the seat across from him empty. The miqo'te had already silently fled the scene, leaving only crumbs behind.

@guttergodsknife

[blackrose-ffxiv]

26. Last

The last piece was finally there in his hands. It had taken well over a turn to procure all of the necessary pieces. To make the right contacts, to coerce them into unwittingly assisting. Keeping all of them in the dark as to what the others were up to. All of the planning, the manipulation and the blackmail leading up to this.

It wasn't much to look at, all told. A shriveled bit of flesh and bone preserved through traditional and aetherial means. The last lingering scraps of a long-forgotten Saint. The remains had been encased in a beautiful gold and glass reliquary and proudly displayed in a Coerthan chapel before the never-ending winter destroyed the structure. Prayed to by countless faithful over the years. Steeped in their hopes, their fears... but most importantly, their fury. Now, it rested nestled in a satin lined box, awaiting all of that compounded emotion to be put to good use.

He was the answer to those prayers. He was the fury that would tear down the false promises of the Republic. He was the terror to be struck into the heart of every faithless heathen who had dared to pour through Her gates. He was the hope to bring about the golden age of Ishgard, to replace this crippled truce with the true peace of victory. He would call upon the Goddess Herself and through him She would speak Her truth.

Everything was ready. The last piece was his. The box's lid was gently closed and set down on the table. The time was nigh. He reached for his forgotten cup of tea, realizing only then that his fingers were trembling.

All the pieces would be in place come dawn. All had been arranged just as demanded of him. He had followed the path laid out for him. Now, perhaps finally, that voice would be satisfied and allow him rest. It would all be over. It should have been a relief... so, why then, was he so very afraid?

[chief-mourner]

21. Grave

The night sky was beautiful on the outer fringes of the Thanalans. Far from the city, without the bright lights pouring from every window and lantern of the jewel of the desert, there seemed to be more stars in the sky than grains of sand in the desert. A vast sea of them. Moving like an ebb and flow of a tide… no, that wasn't quite right. Stars weren't supposed to shift like that. That may have been the liquor talking. Nonetheless even the disconcerting shifting of the spins was a delight when one was stargazing. Even when the field of view was reduced to a narrow rectangle. Walls of hard-packed dirt served as each side of the 'frame' yet above there was nothing but night sky.

He could have laid like that all night. He probably would have to lay like that all night. No one would know he was out there at this time and the devout of the nearby church wouldn't be crawling around for lauds until dawn. That was fine. He was comfortable. He had the stars. He had a little more left in the bottle. A hand stretched outwards, dark-nailed fingers feeling along freshly turned dirt in search of that bottle. First he found dampness, then a jagged edge of glass that bit into pale skin to add a few drops of fresh crimson to the wet soil. It would seem the bottle had not survived the fall. Perhaps the situation was more dire than he thought. Just when he was wondering if perhaps he would die there after all within the next few bells, wallowing in his woeful self-pity, a shadow leaned over the edge of the hole in the ground.

"Jyhun?" It asked hesitantly, slowly swimming into focus as a cowl-wearing devout of the local church rather than a lichyard phantom. Their face shadowed by the roughspun fabric.

Jyhun was very still and quiet, sure that his tendency for dark clothes made him near-invisible at the bottom of the pit. Weighing admitting it was indeed him and being rescued versus the shame of admitting it had happened again. He could simply die of embarrassment right there, he was already in the grave after all.

"I saw ya out in the headstones, then ya were gone. Did'ya fall in? Are ya hurt?"

"… I did not realize we had… an upcoming burial…"

"Didn' ya dig it yaself this afternoon?"

"…"

"I'll get'ya the rope…"

[chief-mourner]

14. Clear

"There are…. things… to feed… I will manage." Were the last words Jyhun spoke before disappearing out into the blizzard, despite the protests and well-intentioned offers of a place to stay for the night. Things that waited. Things that needed tending to all the way across Eorzea where snows never fell without the intensive interventions of an entire guild of Alchemists. A few steps away from the doorway of that small tavern in the Brume the mage disappeared into the swirling umbral aether of the raging storm.

Desert nights were cold, yet compared to Coerthas it was downright balmy as the thaumaturge dropped lightly back out of the flowing streams of aether that had whisked him away. The very same stuff that flowed through his veins, subtly shifting from fiery aether to chilly umbral to adjust to the ambient temperature. Things to feed. Things to tend to. Things that waited. He reminded himself as he entered the silent building. Down serpentine staircases that sometimes wended the wrong direction to a door that sometimes decided it wanted to be elsewhere. Through that door to another door beyond, the lock springing open at his touch and swinging open to reveal the dark rooms beyond illuminated by sickly bioluminescent glows. The first Thing waited just beyond the door, swimming slow circles in a massive tank of cloudy water. A nearby pot was upturned into the tank, several fish with silvery scales splashing into the tank. Darting quick trails and blissfully unaware of what their newfound freedom truly meant.

Next to a wooden crate, the lid carefully lifted with one hand as the other drew a book from his overcoat. A novella at best flimsily bound in cheap red material marked it for something salacious bought for little more than a few gil at one of the many used-book vendors down on the Avenues. He hadn't even looked at it until then, turning it over to check the title in the dim light from the nearby tank. '1000 Nights with the Bandit Prince'. Oh. So that was why the vendor had flashed him such a knowing smile. The novel was pinched between fingers as he held it out over the crate, dropping it down into its depths. There was a thump and the sound of paper tearing viciously as the lid was slammed shut again, held firmly down as he waited for the worst of it to pass. Another Thing tended to.

One last Thing that waited. The au ra skulked down a narrow passageway, fingers extending to brush against a row of staves lovingly displayed along the wall as he passed. A few steps further into a dark room and he lifted his hand to light the lone candelabra. A step further and something squelched unpleasantly. He stopped short, slowly lifting a heeled boot as he lowered his head to stare down at the oozing puddle. Thick and viscous as it spread along dark tiles in the darkness. He had waited too long. Jyhun crouched and ran fingers through the mess, turning over his hands to check the color of it. Black was common, as well as shades of violet or red. Winter moon eyes widened as the fluid proved clear, showing the lines of pale fingers underneath with only a mild distortion. Oh. No, no. That couldn't be right.

The hand was quickly wiped off on his robes with little concern for the material and his hands went to a drawer that should have been set flush in the wall. Yet it was jutting out askew from the rest. One of many along its expanse, all unmarked. He pulled hard, slowly rolling out the drawer the rest of the way to reveal another tank, large enough to for even the tall au ra to recline comfortably in. It wasn't overflowing but rather the opposite… it was nearly empty. A large crack running down the side revealing the cause of the leak. Clear fluid dropping slowly onto the floor as it bled from the damaged wall. More concerning than the crack was the fact that the tank was… empty. Oh. Oh, no.

Well. At least it was one less Thing…

[blackrose-ffxiv]

12. Dowdy

The seventeenth sun of the second umbral moon was the most important day of the entire turn. The day after the feast of Saint Valentione. The morning of embarrassing walks home in the clothes one wore the previous night from a lover's abode, champagne and strawberries still on their breaths while sweet nothings echoing on around their head. The day of all unsold chocolates and confections being reduced drastically in price in an attempt to seduce the unpartnered into purchasing them for themselves... since they had no one to gift them the day prior. Decorations of hearts and pudgy cherubs were slowly removed from shop windows to make room for the next feast day. Yet more importantly than all of these other things, it was Lebeaux's Nameday.

Ives had been planning that evening for moons, though he would not admit it aloud. As it was, mentioning his pampered paramour often brought raised eyebrows and glanced of concern. 'Why do you put up with him...' was a common question that followed. 'But he's so awful...' a common comment as well. It hadn't bothered the Sharlayan in the least, these concerns only receiving a cryptic smile in return and a refusal to elaborate. His business was his own, no matter how his staff may snicker and gossip. Perhaps it was time to /lightly/ poison one of them to remind them who they were taking such liberties talking about... again.

Nonetheless the evening had gone off without a hitch. The Ishgardian seemed pleased with the offerings of extravagant gifts and decadent desserts, as pleased as he ever was with anything. And the marks of that pleasure still stung and ached dully on the Sharlayan's skin as he lounged on his luxurious bed, careful not to smudge blood on the sheets as he awaited Lebeaux's emergence from the bath. Despite how well the evening had gone, Ives was still forbidden from joining him in the bath or even from being present in the room as the Ishgardian emerged from the tub filled to the brim with warm water and scented foam. Really, it could have fit three spoken comfortably. Six if they were particularly comfortable with each other. Yet of course when it came to Lebeaux, there was only room for him and his ego.

"You may have the bath." Was announced when the Ishgardian finally emerged.

Ives slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows when he heard that gracious decree, emerald eyes drifting in that direction with a contented smile on dark lips. He brushed a few strands of long, dark hair from his face for a better look and regretted it immediately. He exhaled a small sigh.

"I'd forgotten just how ridiculous that looks... should I get a matching set?" The Sharlayan teased as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a small wince and pushed himself to his feet. Lebeaux was wearing his nightclothes to mark his intent to remain through morning, and while he had seen them before it wasn't any easier to look at. The long nightshirt was less of a shirt and more a complex assortment of ribbons and ruffles, with a sleeping bonnet to match that the medic was currently tucking strands of his damp hair up into. If Ives recalled correctly under those layers of frill there was an equally awful set of bloomers. Ishgardian modesty at its most powerful. It was downright dowdy.

"You should get yourself a set. Ishgardian sleepwear at its finest, there is nothing quite like wrapping yourself in such luxury to sleep." Lebeaux had declared, clearly indignant that his sleepwear would be called 'ridiculous'. As though it wasn't bad enough Ives often made cutting remarks about his over-puffed trousers. "The Sharlayans clearly have no taste for food nor fashion." The Ishgardian insisted as he made his way to join Ives on the bed, fingers trailing over damaged skin and pausing to curl wickedly pointed nails into a laceration that had only just stopped bleeding.

Ives inhaled sharply, giving the medic a disbelieving look. "You think I would look better in that? You are as ridiculous as that bonnet." He sighed, letting his gaze travel over towards the wall as the dig of nails was soon replaced by the soothing warmth of healing aether as Lebeaux began mending the damage he had wrought. "But yes, I would wear it if you told me to. But I would do nearly anything you told me to..."

"You would wear it, but you would be humiliated, is that so." Lebeaux mused as he worked, pale eyes lowered under the shadow of overhanging frill as he worked. "It certainly would not be the first time I have brought you to enjoy such humiliations."

Ives decided, in that moment, that this must be true love. For there was no other reason that he could actually be attracted to someone wearing such a horrific outfit. And yet, when his gaze returned to Lebeaux there was adoration in his eyes for the smug smile on his lips and the cruel truths that slipped through them... in spite of the framing of the offensive bonnet. The Ishgardian was not wrong.

Ives + some excerpts used with permission from @sivar-ffxiv-hub

[iron-roots]

11. Once Bitten, Twice Shy

"Pull that line tight and secure it, Snowbird!"

"Underst-….er… aye, Cap…n!" It was almost physically painful to drop the consonant and vowels in between.

Anselme grabbed for the indicated rope, holding it firmly between wrapped palms as he turned to hoist as hard as he could. He had only just started throwing his weight into it when he heard it. A sound echoing across the small cutter's deck stopped him short in his tracks. It was a giggle. Not just any giggle. That very same tittering had come mere moments before the full weight of a headsail had come crashing down on him the last time he had hopped to pulling a line the moment the Captain barked for it.

The Knight straightened up, holding the line taut but not drawing it in as he had been ordered. He flashed O'seyah a bright grin. "Not this time, Captain." Anselme declared proudly, figuring for sure that he had figured out the Seekers game. Fool him once, shame on the catte. Fool him twice… "If I pull that, will the mainsail drop on me today?" He asked with a laugh.

The giggling was cut short but the tanned miqo'te's grin didn't disappear. Instead he leaned forwards on the wheel, leaning his arms on the felloe to cross them around the handles. "Nah, nuffin' like that. But y'may wanna watch fer the boom ya didn'a secure."

"The… boo-oof!" Anselme grunted as the line was tugged from his hands and said boom swung round after being caught in a wayward gust. It collided squarely with his back. Over the side the Knight went with a terrific splash that nearly drowned out the peals of echoing laughter that burst forth from O'seyah. The Captain clung to the wheel, cackling until he wheezed. Slowly the wheezing stopped as the splashing continued, at a far more frantic pace.

"Aw, shite. He don' swim… I gotta fix that." The Seeker sighed before diving overboard.

@eorzeansky

[blackrose-ffxiv]

7. Noisome

One last slip of parchment to be slipped in with the rest of the files. One last signature scrawled across a report. That was that. The end of his tasks for the day. It afforded him just enough time to return home and labor over his outfit choices for a bell before dressing and arriving fashionably late for the gala. Lennaux slid his chair back from the desk he'd been sitting at for what felt like eras. Sliding the completed paperwork aside for a clerk to tend to later. The gossip bulletin he'd spent the morning reading instead of working was folded up and tucked inside of his solemn black robes. Thus armed with the knowledge of who would be in attendance that night, he could plan his dance card accordingly.

Just as he reached for the door handle to escape the small office the door on the other side swung open. It brought with it what felt like a cool breeze, though it was imagined rather than real. But what was very real was the foul stench that rolled into the office. An odor that was all too familiar. The smell that came when living flesh festered, poisoning blood and spreading foul miasmas. Lennaux turned on his heel, lifting his hand to cover his mouth and nose with his sleeve as he narrowed his eyes to glare at the man who had just interrupted his escape.

Ciceroix stood in the doorway, dark stains across his own robe only visible where the wet patches shone in the dim light. "Where are you going, Haillenarte. There is work to be done." The Inquisitor asked as he smiled sweetly, beckoning for his assistant to come join him. "You will have to work quickly, this one has not yet confessed and I fear he is not long for this star." The older elezen explained, giving his head a light shake to move a section of silver-blond hair out of his face. His gloves far too filthy to do it by hand.

Lennaux hesitated, looking longingly towards the door he had been trying to escape through and while he stalled the Inquisitor snapped his fingers firmly. The gesture splattering tiny flecks of blood onto the doorway he stood in.

"Tonight is my House's Starlight Gala." Lennaux explained carefully, trying to keep the petulant whine out of his voice. Though he suspected Ciceroix was already well aware. "I am expected to be there…"

The Inquisitor scoffed and turned on his heel, snapping his fingers once again and this time pursing his lips to whistle as one would for a dog. "Your sacred duties to Her justice outweigh the expectations of society." The word spoken as though it was a filthy sacre.

Lennaux turned to follow with a hiss of frustration, pushing the pile of parchment off the desk as he passed for some hapless clerk to sort out later. He stepped into the room behind the Inquisitor, once again covering his nose and mouth against the noisome stench that washed over him upon entry. He moved to the table where his tools were laid out, dabbing a strong-smelling ointment around the edges of his nostrils to block some of the odor before tying a dark mask over his mouth and nose to further block the miasma. He hadn't even looked at the 'patient' yet. An accused wasn't worth the consideration. Only another obstacle before he was free. The quickest way would likely be amputation, he suspected, depending on how far the gangrenous infection had spread.

"I presume the accused was already rotting when he was brought in… what was the cause of the…" He trailed off as he heard footsteps heading away from him, looking up to find Ciceroix stripping off his bloodstained robes and gloves to set them aside. "… where in the Hells do you think you are going?" He demanded, slender brows furrowing as his expression twisted to something violently sour under the fabric of his mask.

"To House Haillenarte's Starlight Gala, of course. Anyone who is anyone will be there. I must show my face, even if only briefly. Surely you have the matter to hand. Keep my accused alive until I return to record his confession. Perhaps I will be back by sunrise…" The Inquisitor explained casually. "And do not make such a hideous face, Lennaux. I trained you far better than that. When he should awaken he will be comforted by a pleasant countenance. Smile…" With that he was gone, the door slamming firmly behind him.

Lennaux swore violently, picking up one of the scalpels to apply it vigorously and repeatedly to the robes that had been left behind. Once they were left in tattered ribbons he returned, panting, to his 'patient' laid out on the table. Already unconscious with pain and fever. The assistant reached towards the table to lift a wicked saw, holding it up to inspect its edge.

"Amputation it is…" He caught his own reflection in the polished steel surface. Pale eyes wide with wild anger and hatred, his mask having slipped during his tantrum to reveal a savage, tooth-baring smile.

[iron-roots]

6. Ring

Again. Run through it again. It must be perfect. Anything less would result in a guilty verdict. Or trial at Witchdrop. Perhaps he could press for combat. If she named him her champion... what were his odds against who the Tribunal may name. Certainly it wasn't a matter worthy of the Heavens Ward's time, was it? He was getting distracted. Back to his testimony, run through it again.

A small knock warned him of a visitor and Anselme turned to face the heavy door. The room was sparse, yet at least his name had afforded him some few luxuries. A table with parchment, ink and quill should he decide to pen a confession as he awaited trial. A simple bed rather than a straw pallet on the floor.

Heavy locks were undone before the door swung open, admitting a stern guard. Rather than manacles he carried Anselme's personal effects bundled into the Knight's cloak. The bundle was set down on the table and the soldier bowed lightly before departing without a word, making way for the second visitor.

Anselme looked with outright confusion between the returned items and the man who came through the door next. Taller than when he'd last spoken directly to him, rather than glimpses in passing, yet not quite fully a man grown just yet. Lennaux stood just within the doorway, folding arms over his chest and staying well away from the frame to keep from smudging his white cloak as he stared at his older brother. The expression on his cherubic face carefully neutral.

"You have been acquitted. Your armor and weapons have already been returned to the manor. You are not to speak to anyone on your way back." He explained flatly, his voice just as carefully even. "Visit Mother before returning to duty. She has cried every day since your arrest..."

"Then there is time still to make it to the Tribunal..." Anselme did not move as he interrupted, rooted to the spot as he tried to process the information his brother passed along. Recalculating his plan for the daring rescue.

Lennaux tilted his head slightly, a small smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

"Oh, no. Her trial is already over and done with. Did you truly expect to be permitted to testify on her behalf...? Did you believe you would be granted leave to fight for her in trial by combat?" The younger brother wondered, clearly amused. "Such a shame the trial was moved to this morning. Take heart in knowing that she did not implicate you. Not that she had opportunity to..."

The room swam, cold stone spinning as the Knight reached to brace a hand against the rough-hewn bricks of the wall.

"Why, Lennaux?" He demanded, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears as he struggled not to be sick. "Hate me if you must, but why this? Make your grievances known and demand satisfaction, I will not run from your challenge! Enough of dragging others into this petty feud." Anselme pushed away from the wall to take a staggering step towards his brother, large hands curling into fists as he crossed the small room.

Lennaux's hand struck out from under his cloak like a serpent, something small that flashed in the dim candlelight thrown directly into his older brother's face to stop his blind rush cold. A small ring, sized for a slender finger. Pale gold adorned with glittering diamonds bouncing off of Anselme's cheek before hitting the floor with a gentle tinkle of delicate metal. It hadn't been to her tastes, but she had accepted the promise gift nonetheless and laughed off his solemn vow to have something befitting her made before the ceremony.

The Knight knelt slowly to retrieve it, the glitter of precious metal and gems blurring in the grief and anger that gathered stinging hot along lower lashes before sliding down his cheeks.

"There is no mourning period for heretics. Do not wear black... and choose more wisely in the future how you try to escape your responsibilities." Lennaux informed his brother casually rather than answering his questions and demands. Lingering a little longer to watch the Knight grieve. "Oh, do pull yourself together. You barely knew her... perhaps she was even a heretic in truth."