#robyn lanner

[bala-xiv]

Date: XX - X - XXXX. Met prospective new patron today. First impressions: Direct. Well-spoken. Vain, but not overly narcissistic. Confident in his power, if insecure in his mortality. As equally well-versed in the intricacies of court politics and noble society as he is in matters of war and conquest. Intelligent enough to avoid the traps laid out before him by Amon and his ilk, but not quite so much that he can see the noose already tightening about his neck. Quite attractive in profile, if only from his right side; such a terrible shame about his left. Most importantly, the man is possessed of a favorable temperament and more than enough material wealth to suit my needs. Construction of Arachnion proceeds apace, and he is more than willing to divert funds toward its completion so long as he receives of the fruit of my labor; a simple promise, all too easily fulfilled. Yes, he will serve me rather nicely.

[ . . . ] As an aetherochemical researcher of the late Allagan era, Damophon is best known today for his research into preserving one’s continuity of consciousness during transference of the soul into various media, both organic and inorganic. To this end he made numerous innovations in the field of cloning technology, some of which have been mistakenly attributed to his more infamous colleague and counterpart Amon. In fact, the entirety of his body of work might have been thusly misattributed had it not been for the man’s habit of meticulously chronicling his day-to-day activities, no matter how mundane. Among these meticulously-kept notes can be found detailed records of Damophon’s many patrons: Allagan nobles of varying renown, each one bearing deep investment in the idea of immortalizing their names through contributions to science, or quite literally immortalizing themselves through Damophon’s discoveries. Only one such patron is never referred to by name, nor does Damophon attribute to him any other identifying information, as he indicates this particular patron’s funding is to be directed strictly toward a project ‘of utmost secrecy and import.’ Nevertheless, Damophon seems to have taken great interest in this chosen venture, as his writings on the matter — those which have been discovered thus far, to wit — indicate a level of vigor and interest rarely seen in his other reports. This interest is likewise shared with his mysterious patron, with whom he associates only a coded name: the Hanged Man.

[jancisstuff]

In Our Hands, the Heart

[paissa-enterprises]

What was supposed to be a simple mining job in the Shroud ended with company members having to chase down a crazy spriggan!

[bala-xiv]

[…] Yes, I know exactly what sort of man you are. Not the man you were, once celebrated in story and song, for he has long since turned to ash. In Meracydia did you claim your glory, seized it with both hands, and for a price no less than death; and when death came to claim you in turn, you stood upon that precipice, gazed into that yawning abyss from which no light, no life can ever escape; and rather than give yourself over to that eternal embrace, much less to allow your memory to pass into legend, what did you do instead? You turned away, and gave yourself over to fear. Yes, that is exactly the sort of man you are, now and I fear forever on. Neither your vaunted strength nor your storied accomplishments shall follow your name into the annals of history; in their place, only cowardice shall remain.

— An excerpt from the personal writings of Damophon, an aetherochemical scholar of some renown during the late Allagan era. The subject of this passage remains a mystery into the modern day, for no record has been found among Damophon’s other works in which he refers to this man by name; some scholars have theorized that Damophon is addressing none other than Emperor Xande himself, but no evidence has yet been found which might support this conclusion.

[bala-xiv]

mushussu;

cw: allusions to violence, mild gore

The hour is late; the lamps in the corridor have long ago dimmed. Somewhere a clock is faintly ticking, the only sound Robyn can hear above the scratching of his pen against paper.

He’d thought that the monotony of this work would suffice to lull him to sleep, as it has so many times in the past; to his chagrin, that supposition has thus far proved incorrect. Still, it’s work that needs to be done — work that he’d gladly volunteered to do, work that brought him into the Archive’s halls in the first place — and if he can’t spend the night asleep, then he might as well spend these long hours putting himself to good use.

An Illustrated Guide to Notable Dragons of Meracydia sits upon the book stand, cracked open with care to a two-page spread of a fearsome wyvern and diagram of its anatomy. The diagram itself is drawn with lifelike precision, while its various labels and notes are written in the overly-detached, utterly scientific manner that Robyn has come to expect of Allagan texts. Even in these physical tomes, which surely must have taken some greater effort to produce than the digital records housed within a tomestone… Even then, there was some curious comfort in finding a sliver of familiarity, no matter how small.

Familiarity — perhaps that’s what he needs. Perhaps burying himself in the familiar will put his mind off…

A shuddering sensation slithers down his spine. No, no; if he spends much more time introspecting, he’ll have defeated his very purpose in coming here. He focuses his attention wholly, fully upon the illustrated wyvern once more.

His focus draws to a single point — to a single sickle-like claw, angled forward as though to sink into the wyvern’s prey — noted in that detached Allagan manner to be especially adept at puncturing armor and hide alike, particularly designed for stripping flesh from bone…

Robyn turns the page with perhaps less care than he really should. He needs not to think, not to dwell; he needs only to read, and to record.

The page that follows is taken up in whole by another illustration, this one depicting an altogether different manner of dragon: a wingless creature whose serpentine form seemed almost to weave in upon itself, its whiplike neck and tail poised to lash out; two horns sprouted from its head, themselves nearly the length of its jaw, and its fangs were bared, talons spread wide, as if to strike. It almost seemed as if it were ready to leap from the page and sink those fangs into—

No, no. What a silly thing to consider. How absurd, to even think of it.

Still, Robyn finds himself shaking his head to clear his mind, as though the action might shake loose any memory of the day’s events — as though it might stop his imagination from running wild, fueled by sights one ought never to have seen. Still…

Once again, Robyn attempts to focus upon a single point: the very next page, which begins, in heading, with a word he has never seen before. This alone is enough to distract him from any other thought; how rare is it, after all, that he finds a word which he can associate with no meaning? It’s with not a little excitement that he picks up his pen and begins to write once more.

He starts with transcribing the word just as it appears in the Allagan script, and only then does he take up the task of transliteration. Mu… Mushku? No, perhaps instead— Mush-hushu… Mushushu. Mushussu?

Each one seems equally likely to be the correct pronounciation, at least in Robyn’s mind. That tells him nothing of its meaning, of course, but that’s simple enough to glean: as the heading of the page, it could be none other than the name given to the dragon portrayed on the opposite page.

Mushushu… Mushussu…

Robyn searches his memory and can come up with no other mention of such a name in any other Allagan record he’s read thus far, in a tomestone or by any other means. Could it possibly be, then — could he have possibly found some bit of history that had previously been lost to time? Could he have found something entirely new? His pulse quickens at the very thought; the sensation of his heart pounding is a welcome reprieve, at least, from the way his mind had been racing before this. It’s with newfound enthusiasm that he scans through the text that follows, his pen working faster to write his summations than his mind can come up with them.

After the scientific measurements of the creature’s various anatomical parts, after the dry summation of its various battles and the destruction it had wreaked upon Allag’s mightiest forces — after all of that, however, Robyn hits another snag: another word he doesn’t recognize.

One unfamiliar word, name or no, should be cause enough for excitement, but a second one? He takes a deep breath to ground himself, to slow down and refocus; the word appears mid-sentence, and in situations like these, context is key. He’ll have to translate it properly if he wants to understand…

After untold lives were lost to Mushusshu’s fang and claw, ultimately the dragon’s pride proved to be its undoing, for Lieutenant General ——— issued forth a challenge of single combat, and it was in this way that the Lieutenant General claimed Mushusshu’s head, and it was for this deed that ——— was awarded the rank of General Commander.

Unconsciously, Robyn had begun tapping his pen in time with the soft ticking of the clock nearby. The use of military titles suggested more than anything else that this word had to have been another name, in which he would find no inherent meaning; no, just as with Mushussu, he would have to work it out manually. He writes at first without looking at the page, merely copying the Allagan script, before he begins to scratch out in Eorzean letters…

Andriskos…

Andriskos.

Once again does the pounding of his heart overwhelm nearly all else, but it’s somehow a different sensation this time. His heart pounds; his blood runs cold; his hands shake; his mind seems almost to drift away from the rest of his body, which now feels distant and faint. He can’t explain it; he can’t figure out why. Why…

Andriskos. Andriskos.

He can’t understand it. The name, the word itself is so unfamiliar to him, and yet why— At the sound of it, at the very sight of it, why does he feel so—

The clock strikes upon the hour, and with the suddenness of the chime comes another sudden sensation — a searing pain across either cheek, hot and wet from sweat and tears and blood — entirely unexpected, and entirely new — hands garbed in cold steel closing around his throat, a heavy weight crushing down against his chest, squeezing, strangling, and unseen eyes burning with hate—

Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.

Andriskos!

It’s but a moment before the clock finishes its chime, and just as suddenly does Robyn come back to himself; in that moment, somehow, he’s fallen out of his chair and onto the floor, both hands at his own throat as though to guard against some invisible attacker. His heart still pounds, but that sensation is all that lingers; everything else seems to have faded just as quickly, as suddenly as it had come.

He’s uneasy on his feet, but he stands regardless, righting his chair with trembling hands and scanning his work space to see if anything else had been knocked astray in his fright. Fortunately, his inkwell remains undisturbed — as does his pen, although he now sees that his pen has blotted a large stain where he had last left it, at the terminus of the last word he had finished writing.

Andriskos.

All too suddenly, he’s much too cold. It takes only a moment for Robyn to decide on his next course of action: to carefully close the book upon its stand, to put up his pen and straighten out his sheaf of notes, to turn off the lantern whose light he’d been working by, and then to turn right around and return to the nap room.

Perhaps he’ll only succeed in lying awake for another few hours, until the sun rises and he can pretend that he hadn’t had one of his worst nights in recent history. Perhaps he’ll finally fall asleep, only to be tormented by dreams of all he’d seen and what had just transpired. At this point, whichever result he ends up with matters not; in this moment he needs to remove himself from his writing, from his work, and nothing else could matter more.

[bala-xiv]

the heart seeketh equilibrium; with balance shall your worry part.

[bala-xiv]

LFRP: Robyn Lanner, Balmung (Crystal DC)

the basics—

age: early 20′s

nameday: unknown

race: hyur

gender: male, he/him

orientation: homosexual

relationship status: single

physical appearance—

hair: short, blonde with irregular dark streaks

eyes: pale yellow; if one looks closely, his left eye is noticeably paler than his right.

height: 5′6″

build: slight, lean, wiry but not especially muscular

distinguishing marks: two symmetrical scars on his face, one on either cheek

common accessories: an earring dangling from his left ear; the style sometimes varies, but he rarely wears one to match on his other ear.

personal—

profession: adventurer, part-time magical researcher

hobbies: reading, studying, travel

languages: eorzean common

residence: a small basement apartment in Ul’dah, which he shares with stacks upon stacks of musty, aged tomes.

birthplace: unknown

fears: combat in close quarters; losing his identity; open water, drowning, and the deep sea; death.

relationships—

spouse: none

children: none

parents: unknown

other relatives: unknown

traits—

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between /  Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

additional information—

smoking habit: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

drugs: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

alcohol: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

potential hooks—

full-time adventurer, part-time everything else. Robyn is a skilled spellcaster who primarily makes his living through adventuring, traveling all over Eorzea and doing whatever it is the common folk need done. Between travels, though, he most often calls Ul’dah home, and can commonly be found doing odd jobs for the various guilds of the city.

an unclear past. When the subject of his history comes up in conversation, Robyn’s answer is ever consistent: that he was attacked by monsters while traveling through Thanalan just a few years ago, and that he awoke in the Silver Bazaar with no memory of his past or identity. Though he’s not particularly secretive about his amnesia, he’s rarely interested in discussing the matter any further, not even with others who might share his condition.

the secrets of allag. Robyn has a very particular interest in learning as much as he can about the Allagan Empire; to this end he has gained quite a bit of specialized knowledge on the subject, and after recent adventures, he even has first-hand experience in the mythic lands of Azys Lla. Though he’s by no means an illustrated scholar, if there’s ever an adventuring expedition in need of someone with Allagan expertise, Robyn is (probably) the one to call.

black magic, white magic, sword magic, stave magic. Having studied extensively under the thaumaturges’ guild of Ul’dah, Robyn is most skilled when it comes to conjuring elemental magicks for the purpose of combat and destruction. In the interest of bettering his self-defense, he has also taken to using a blade alongside a gem-based focus for his spellcasting, in a style that is both inspired by and superficially similar to that which is employed by red mages; though he hasn’t been formally trained in the art of the crimson, he has a keen interest in finding someone who can help him do so, all for the sake of growing and developing as a mage.

let’s try more sword, less magic. Recent experiences have led Robyn to the belief that he needs to become stronger to protect those he cares about, not just magically, but physically, as well. To this end, he seeks a tutor who can train him in the art of the blade — preferably a bigger blade than the one he uses to cast spells with — but given his current level of skill in actual melee combat with an actual sword, which is to say almost none, where can he even begin his search...?

uncommon knowledge. Among those employed in the Brass Blades, there may still be rumblings of an incident which occurred in Western Thanalan some years past, in which the castrum at Cape Westwind was observed to be on high alert a mere day before a suspected Garlean deserter — suspected, but yet unproven — was found half-dead in the desert. Likewise, those Garleans who were at any point stationed at Castrum Marinum, conscripts or otherwise, may be aware of a similar incident — not one which involves any deserters, but rather that of an archaeological find in the currents near the Cape, a find of such significance that all related information was strictly classified before the object itself was moved elsewhere for safekeeping...  ★  This hook is open only to those characters who would fit the criteria to know this information (i.e. Brass Blades or Garlean forces stationed in Thanalan), or who might have the requisite connections to have heard about it from one of these sources. If you’re interested in pursuing this hook and you’re not sure if your character would qualify, please message me so we can talk it out!  ★

OOC information—

player: valya, she/her

discord: rianofski#4692

timezone: EST/EDT

only seeking RP partners who are 21+, please.

walkups/tells welcome when status is set to RP! if my status is not set — i’m probably just bumming around doing MSQ and other OOC stuff, but feel free to send a tell anyway! if you’d like to set up a scene, feel free to reach out so we can discuss availability/scheduling!

potentially open to mature/dark themes; please don’t hesitate to contact me OOC if you have any questions or concerns! additionally, soliciting ERP without any prior OOC communication or IC development will be firmly turned down.

visibility tags!: @ffxiv-crystal-rp​ @mooglemeet​ @crystalxivrp​ @balmungrp​

[bala-xiv]

dream logic;

“A heartbeat without harmony...”

Words without tone, without rhythm, without melody still echoed in Robyn’s mind; lyrics without a song, a heartbeat without harmony. He struggled to make it fit as he lay in his bed, to piece it together with the plucked and hummed notes he had heard from the others in the expedition, but none of it seemed to slot into place. None of it seemed to work as it should.

It shouldn’t have bothered him so. The simulated goddess had fallen to his and his fellow expeditioners’ best efforts, after all, and their might had been duly proven to the Allagan node which barred their way... But where Robyn had heard only the goddess’ biting words and the clash of sorcery and steel, the others had all heard something far different: a song, as though emanating from the goddess herself.

“Moonlight without dark...”

It shouldn’t have bothered him at all, that he had missed something so unimportant — but how unimportant was it, really, that he had missed something which sounded so clear, so obvious to everyone else? 

What was missing? What was he missing?

“The heart seeketh equilibrium...”

It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did, to have identified yet one more thing that marked him apart from the rest. Was it important, truly, or did it mark him as inferior in some way? Surely not, but that hardly mattered so much as the fact that he was marked in the first place. Though the goddess wasn’t real, only simulated, there was still something about her presence to which the others had innately attuned — some sort of wavelength that he couldn’t even begin to comprehend, let alone tune into.

Why, then? What was he made for, if not for this?

“...A pointless feature, if you ask me. Why even bother...?”

As the voice rippled through Robyn’s mind like a distant echo, a sharp, sudden spike of pain drove into his head, pounding harder and harder as he clutched his face with a cry. It came upon him with such force that he rolled right out of his bed and onto the ground, only the ground seemed so much more distant than it should have been...and as he landed with a harsh thud, and as the sound of rushing blood faded from his ears, and as the pain in his head finally started to subside, Robyn realized very quickly that he was not where he had been just a moment ago.

The sensation in total was not something altogether unfamiliar to him by now; his first thought upon looking up and finding a dark, cavernous space where his cramped bunk had once been was to wonder if somebody hadn’t managed to activate a materia nearby. But he could see no familiar faces around him, no one at all that seemed to be caught in the same dreamlike state — save two figures in the near distance, both stood with their backs to him as they observed a massive, softly-glowing cylindrical chamber.

“The bother, as with all my ventures, is for your benefit.” One of the figures, dressed in sleek white robes and a pair of spectacles that flashed in the light, was the first to speak. From this distance, from this angle, their face was indistinct. “Did you wish for a mere one-to-one replica, after all? Or would you prefer a body in its absolute prime, perfected for aetherial manipulation and abjuration both?”

The other figure towered over the first, sharp lines of heavy armor silhouetted by the soft light from the chamber.

“My wish was for you to provide a result that matched my expectations — and my patronage.”

It was a cold voice that echoed from beneath that sharply pointed helm. The sound of it turned Robyn’s blood to ice, touched upon a fear so primal that he could only wonder how he hadn’t already heard it in his nightmares.

“And this...thing that you’ve just presented to me,” said the one in armor with a wide, dismissive gesture toward the chamber, “does not seem to meet either measure. Look at it; can it even breathe on its own, let alone stand or fight?”

Robyn had counted incorrectly. There were three figures there: the one in robes, the one in armor, and the one in the chamber, blanched so pale that he could hardly make it out past the glowing light and the shimmering liquid within.

“Your concern is noted,” said the white robes, “but wholly premature. This creature you see before you is a necessary first step in our endeavor; Mark I, if you will, in our efforts to advance and perfect this technology. The next iteration will be significantly improved, I assure you.”

“Why not flush it, then?��� Another dismissive gesture from the armored one. “It seems to me much kinder to end its misery... Though I suppose you aren’t well known for your kindness.”

The robed one answered with a breezy laugh. “And dispense with so much valuable data? No, our needs require that I keep this one in store... A framework, if you will, to build future generations upon. Only once we’ve reached the final iteration will I consider permanent disposal.”

“The final iteration?” echoed the armored one. “And how many iterations do you suppose it will take before we’ve reached that point?”

At that Robyn felt a sudden stabbing pain in his head, and words like a sharpened dagger, every bit as cold and painful as pointed steel, bloomed into his mind, echoing the man in armor’s true intent: How much of my time do you intend to waste before you give me what I want? How much of my wealth do you intend to invest in the birth of these worthless creatures?

But the one in robes did not seem perturbed. “While that remains to be seen, you should know that I’ve already begun work on the second iteration. Their differences in ability are already vast, but without this one as a guiding foundation... Well, let’s just say that one could hardly exist without the other.”

Robyn reeled, doubled over on the floor while he clutched at his head all over again. Two pairs of footsteps echoed away from him, one heavy and clanking, the other light and airy, but he could scarcely hear either past the words still echoing in his mind. Words that could only have belonged to that man — words that he could only hear in his own voice, no matter how hard he tried to shut them out...

When the pain finally faded, and when Robyn was finally able to pick up his head again, he found that he was alone in the cavernous dark — alone, with the pale figure in the glowing chamber. Slowly, unsteadily, he got up to his feet. At any moment, this dream could fall out from under him; at any moment he could be cast out from this vision, this memory, whatever this was, and never again have the chance to see what lay beyond.

As he drew closer, the shape in the chamber became clearer to him — a frail-looking Hyur suspended in translucent fluid, its impossibly pale skin cast in a sickly light by the chamber’s glow — though its face remained indistinct, mouth hidden behind a mask connected to several tubes, sunken eyes hidden behind a floating mess of shock-white hair. It floated there — unhearing, said that echoed voice in his mind, unfeeling, unthinking — without any evident response to Robyn’s presence.

Robyn knew, somehow, that he would never have this chance again. Slowly, tentatively, he raised a hand to touch the glass chamber.

The Hyur’s eyes shot open then, clouded and milky white, and with a sudden force that belied its apparent frailty it smashed its head upon the glass in front of Robyn’s face. Again and again it smashed at that spot, the sound a cacophonous roar in Robyn’s ears, and as the glass of the chamber began to crack, as a cloud of blood began to mingle with the fluid already leaking out, there was a voice, an echoed voice, screaming louder and louder inside of his head—

Robyn woke with a gasp, flat on his back on the floor of his bunk, head throbbing and ears ringing. Only once both sensations had subsided — only when he could be sure that whatever he had just seen was a vision, nothing more — did he make the effort to sit up, to double- and triple-check that he was without a shadow of a doubt back in the waking world.

But hadn’t he been awake all along? It felt so much more than a dream, after all; it felt so much more like one of those materia-bound memories, unleashed upon him with such vividity that he could scarcely tell it wasn’t real. But how could that be, when he was nowhere near the devices that unleashed those memories? And if it was a memory, then who...

Slowly, Robyn drew his knees to his chest, rubbing his palms over his forehead as he took one deep breath after another. Whatever it was that had just happened to him, there had to be some explanation for it; there had to be an explanation for all of it. He just had to find it...

“With balance will your worry part...”

Slowly, softly, a melody drifted into the back of his mind; echoed words from an echoed voice. No, he couldn’t fret over such a thing now; he had plenty enough to be worried about already. He shook his head and tried to put it from his mind one last time as he hefted up to his feet, opened the door to his bunk, and made his way out into the corridor of the ship.

[bala-xiv]

realized recently that there are quite a few screenshots on my xiv twit that i never got around to sharing over here...... so, might as well start now! with robyn, lost in ishgard. somebody please help him, he is very cold

[jancisstuff]

[bala-xiv]

kin;

Kin.

It sounds stupid, it sounds foolish to think on it now, but in truth, that was the first word that entered Robyn’s mind when first he learned of her: the one they called Scylla, the creature they had wrested from the Rovers’ hands, the one who would lead them to their prize. A tool originally wrought by Allagan hands, now repurposed to bring an end to Allagan monstrosity. Through occasional glimpses and rare encounters did that feeling ever persist, the feeling that, for once in his too-short, too-long life, Robyn might, at last, not be alone in this world.

But such things could never be so simple, could they? Not the truth of Scylla’s origin; not the truth of Charybdis’ birth; never, never. His wish, his only wish that Scylla, the Scylla he knew, could live for her own self after all this was done — how foolish he feels to think on it now, to know that she had never lacked for her own self to begin with. Even Charybdis had been Spoken once — even Charybdis had a mother once, had her own hopes and dreams, her own wish to live — and as much as he had thought himself kin to Scylla, kin even to Charybdis in some terrible twisted way, the truth was that they were far more like each other than he could have ever been. And what did that make him, then?

Stupid.

And yet it hurts. It still hurts, still aches in his chest like something clawing desperately to be free, to think on it now — to have finally seen Scylla for who she truly was, her new-old self, only as she was taken away in chains. As foolish as his wish had been, he had been resolved to it, hadn’t he? Resolved to see that she would yet know freedom, and yet— And yet—

Stupid. Foolish.

In the end, what had he done? What had he actually done, in the grand scheme of it all? He wasn’t able to save Voldo. He wasn’t able to save Iago. He couldn’t have hoped to save Charybdis, not if he’d had his entire lifetime to try, and yet he’d still called out to her, as though his words could have made even the slightest difference — and he wasn’t even able to strike her down in the end, was he? No, he could only stand apart from the others while they struck their final blows and she cried and cried for the mother she had once known.

And now, Scylla — he could never have hoped to save her, either. All he could do was watch.

Stupid. Foolish.

Each word lands like a swift kick to his stomach, delivered by an armored boot and a voice he knows only as his own — not his own, no, but that of his true kin. Not his father, not his mother, for he could never have been blessed with the luxury of having either one. Only his maker is left to him, that impossibly cruel maker who haunts his dreams, who trails after his every waking step with those same words:

Useless. Stupid. Foolish.

Robyn lies awake in his bunk, one of few left aboard Salemtaza’s Voyage as it makes its way toward its final stop in Kugane, that which marks the end of his journey. What use is wondering what it was all for, he wonders; he pleads, he begs for his mind to still itself, that he might at last find some rest, but his thoughts have rarely heeded him before and they show no sign of doing so now. He clutches his magical focus to his chest, tightly, tightly enough to leave sharp, painful impressions in the palm of his hand, and the violet orb fixed at its center flickers once, twice, thrice and again with each stray thought, each kick to his gut.

What was it all for, he wonders? He pleads; he begs; he weeps.

[jancisstuff]

“I think... if it is true that there are as many minds as there are heads, then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts.”    ―      Leo Tolstoy,            Anna Karenina    

[bala-xiv]

💣 Bala + Frae \\ 🍬 Robyn

💣  fraewyda wears her heart on her sleeve, both for good and for ill, so when she gets stressed out, everybody around her is going to know it whether they like it or not. she’s quick to apologize after the mood has passed, but that doesn’t really make her any less frightening when she’s lashing out over every little thing that is not actively making her less stressed...

💣  bala, on the other hand, plays his emotional state much closer to his chest; he’s sweet and likable bala, after all, ever serene and ever agreeable, so what business does he have getting worked up over petty things? absolutely none, that’s what, so you’ll never see him getting stressed about anything, and if you ever did, no you didn’t. he’ll just take all of those negative feelings that might lay others low and gather them all up, into a tight little ball in the center of his chest, and that is where they will stay until he can find a secluded enough spot to scream them out.

🍬  robyn once thought he knew what it was like to have a family, but he’s no longer so sure. is it something he wants to have? he’s not so sure about that, either. at this stage in his life, he’s fairly certain that any family he’ll ever have will have to be found in the company of others, but can he afford to let himself get close enough to anyone else for that sort of relationship? he just doesn’t know. maybe one day, he hopes, it won’t trouble him to think on it.

[bala-xiv]

good evening everynyan

[bala-xiv]

one more catch-up post for the night........ top left and right, we have robyn’s garb and weaponry for the Heartless campaign finale in azys lla! and then we have what robyn hopes to be doing in the near future, now that his journey aboard Salemtaza’s Voyage has ended..... as soon as he gets back to eorzea..... maybe.

[bala-xiv]

protocol;

For all his time in the wider world so far, there yet remain some emotions Robyn has not had the chance to practice: emotions which can only be found in the company of others; emotions which cannot be known to any other, not for so long as he wants to survive.

Grief. He thought he had known grief once, in that village by the sea, when he had still thought he had a home to return to — when he had found only an empty house, an empty hearth, long abandoned for horizons unknown. There was a heavy ache inside him then, one which could not force its way out until the village was long behind him, until a wail of despair tore up from his throat with such strength as to catch even his own self by surprise. No pain he had ever felt since, he had thought, could ever compare.

He wonders if grief is what he feels now. The ache is there now, the weight of it nigh unbearable, the itch of something threatening to claw up from his throat ever present... But that can’t possibly be right. He had grieved for the man who saved his life, the man who had given him his very reason to live, and he felt certain that none could question him for it. These men who had failed to return to the Voyage, though — he had met them, worked alongside them, exchanged names and pleasantries with at least one of them... But was that enough? He sees the tears, hears the howls and wails of those who truly mourn the fallen, and he thinks — no. No, of course not. His place here was not to grieve, no matter how heavily the pain weighs upon his heart. No, this cannot be grief; there must be another name for it.

Regret. He has known regret before, but never in such spades, never with such dire consequences as before he joined the expedition. Father Salem had comforted him once, had encouraged him to see the meaning in his life beyond the bounds of where he had expected to find it — but those words ring hollow now, in the wake of his party’s return from Azys Lla, in the face of such monumental loss. Robyn was brought aboard this expedition to fight — to fight, and to see that the hubris of Allag would never again fall into Garlean hands. If he couldn’t achieve even that... If only he had been chosen to join them in Azys Lla, then he...

The memory returns to him as vividly as though he were living it in the here and now: alarms blaring, chimeras roaring, gunner drones raining death upon him and his fellow adventurers. “CONTAINMENT BREACH,” the alarm wails. “ANDRISKOS PROTOCOL ENGAGED,” scream the very walls around them. “CONTAINMENT BREACH—”

Fear. He knows fear, knows it all too well, lives it in every waking moment when he fails to forget what he’s running from. “CONTAINMENT BREACH.” The mechanical voice drills into his head. “SYSTEMS FAILURE IMMINENT.” Seawater floods the space surrounding him, spills into his mouth, chokes the breath from his throat. “CONTAINMENT BREACH—”

Robyn finds himself doubled over on all fours, throat hoarse but very dry, while the umbral winds of the Sea of Clouds dry his dampened cheeks. It takes only a moment to come back to himself, to regain his bearings, to remember his surroundings; it takes a moment longer to verify that he is alone, to remember why he is alone, to remember the patrol route he had volunteered to take alone, to find some space, some quiet, away from the others and their mourning.

That’s right, he thinks; the others, they all need their own space to mourn. He needs no space to mourn, he thinks — and that will be just fine, so long as he can bring what emotions he does feel, whatever they may be, under a tighter grip. So long as no one can see, then no one has to know.

And so long as no one else knows, then he can keep on surviving. He can keep running. No one has to know.