#vavara kir aceris

[sootcloak]

Day 14: Commend

Admiral Merlwyb Bloefiswyn looks for a path forward regarding one of her officers, whose repeated sacrifices have left her more machine than aught else.

Roughly 1800 words.

AO3 Link

    The Rhotano is calm, the sun bright, and the skies clear. The fair winds off the ocean makes sails and flags billow. Down below, the Admiral can see her people going about their lives. Traders shouting from their stands, noiseless from here. Artisans working diligently, sharing brief words with their guild colleagues. Travelers, new to the city and veterans of her winding, spiraling streets both, arriving at the docks. Adventurers near the Aetheryte, enjoying the sun and one another’s company. Another peaceful, quiet day.

    There’s a knock at the door. Merlwyb glances away from her city and people to the signed forms on her desk. She hesitates, a moment. But then, loud and clear, she says,

    “Enter.”

    The doors swing open noiselessly, the guard directly outside speaking firmly.

    “Admiral. Captain Aceris, as requested.” He gives a sharp salute, and stands stiff as a board.

    “At ease. Leave us.” She says, arms folded behind her back as she gazes out the windows of her office. He says nothing, simply steps outside and closes the doors behind him.

    Vavara stands loosely, waiting with an easy patience. Merlwyb continues to stare out over the Rhotano.

    “Ma’am?” Vavara asks, a quiet familiarity there.

    “Forgive me.” She turns her head to look over at the soldier, “Have a seat.”

    Vavara moves on of the chairs slightly closer to the desk, and then sits with both her knees under her, giving her just enough height to have her shoulders rest above the edge of the desk. She takes her hat off, and rests it in her lap, and pulls the loose hair from inside it into a loose tail. She quickly ties it off with a length of black ribbon. Merlwyb lets out a thin, long breath, and then sits down at her desk and faces Vavara.

    “Something need doing, Ma’am?” The earnest way Vavara always asks sends a cold chill running through Merlwyb’s chest - is it guilt? Shame? Either way, it doesn’t show. 

    “No. You outdid yourself at Paglth’an, and by all reports deserve nothing less of a medal.” A restrained, convincing smile works its way onto the Admiral’s face. “Or some other reward.”

    “Last we had this conversation was Ghimlyt, Ma’am. Respectfully, I decline.” A weight slides off Vara’s shoulders. Barely-concealed relief. “I would prefer to have my name appear on as few official documents as possible, for all our sakes.”

    “I remember.” She says, sagely nodding. Her eyes close a moment, and she seems to gird herself. When they open, her face is steely. 

“Captain Vavara Aceris,” The authority in her voice shakes Vavara from the comfortable banter she’d begun to slip into. Her eyes widen a moment, and then she straightens and listens.

    “You are hereby removed from service, effective immediately. I had wished to send you off with honors, but if that is not your desire, so be it.” The shock on Vavara’s face stings, the betrayal written in her eyes cuts deeper. “You are discharged of all privilege, authority, and responsibility granted to you by your rank.” The Admiral pauses for a breath, and Vavara swiftly cuts in.

    “Ma’am!” There’s a desperation there, raw and open, “I swore to follow you until I could go no farther, I have served faithfully and-”

    “Any possessions granted to you by the Maelstrom for your service are yours to keep.” She stands suddenly, her chair squeaking on the floor. “From this moment forward, you are a civilian in the eyes of Lominsan law.”

    Vavara sits still as death, eyes glimmering with unsteady light. Her hands are balled into her coat, and her jaw is clenched. Her body trembles, here and there. Merlwyb closes her eyes, and takes a breath in.

    “Why…?”

    The answer is there, tangible and present in Merlwyb’s mind, but her voice falters a moment, and she does not speak. Instead, the air hangs heavy and bitter.

    “I never failed you. I always, always returned with reports of success, of victory.” Vavara speaks between sharp cuts in her voice, as though she were trying to take a breath though she has no lungs. “Have I angered you, Ma’am?”

    It stings the Admiral, that she’s directing blame back at herself. The wounded look, the jittering trembles. This hurt her, and she’s trying to find what she did wrong. In her head, she feels this justifies the measure, that she’s right to do it. In her heart, it burns and aches.

    “Victory has a price.” She says, quietly and steadily. She has to force her words out evenly. “But I willingly allowed you, my subordinate, to pay it in full. I saw you pay it again, and again. Each time, returning beaten and broken, a report written in blood landing on my desk. After Ghimlyt, I decided it would not happen even once more.”

    “I wasn’t injured, and even if I’m damaged I won’t be a liability! If you’re worried of me falling into enemy hands, I prepared a-”

    “Stop. Please.” Merlwyb looks away and out to sea. “I took advantage of you, knowing you would bear that weight gladly. But I cannot send you to Garlemald or beyond, knowing I would send you to die for me again. Possibly for the last time.” She turns and stares back into Vavara’s eyes. It’s a piercing, intense look. “You aren’t a ship, to be damaged and repaired as a necessity demands, eventually consigned to sink. And I’ve asked you on more than one occasion to not treat yourself as such.”

    “I wish for you to retire. To take a well-deserved rest. You’ve died more than once for the Maelstrom, for me, and each time you did so willingly. I will not lean upon you again.” The Admiral leans on her desk with one arm, pushing a small sheaf of papers forward towards her.

    “Ma’am.” Vavara straightens her back, the temperamental, unsteady trembling steadying bit by bit. Her hand moves to her eyes, as though to wipe away a tear, but stops halfway through the gesture. Muscle memory, realization. “Regardless of whether you order it or not, I can’t retire. Not yet, maybe not ever. Even as a civilian, my path leads me back to Garlemald. Whether I do so alone or not has yet to be determined.” She pushes off the chair and slowly stands. She brushes off the top of her cap, and holds it gently in both hands.

    “When I was found-” She steps lightly around the Admiral’s desk, and looks out to sea. Merlwyb turns away, grimacing. “As an Imperial, I mean. Detained and questioned. My future was uncertain. I was scared. And then you and I shared words. I had seen Vlybrand by then, of course. The troubles of its people. The shadows made by the sins of your past. I had thought to myself you were ‘Another pretender, claiming hers is the righteous cause’. I had few options, at the time, though. And so I took your deal. Kept my freedom. Lent you my aid.”

    “I remember. You’ve stood by us since then. Though I did not know you thought so poorly of me.” The Admiral says.

    “Aye. But there was a point, both a long while ago and rather recently, at which my mind changed. Do you remember the Crystal Braves? The banquet?”

    She nods.

    “You stood by them, and helped me hide and recover when I was presumed dead.” Her gaze is unbroken on the horizon, body steadier now. The ease with which she holds herself, working its way back into her stance. “You proved me somewhat wrong, there. I had thought you shortsighted, more concerned with your own power and influence. But those decisions cost you. They cost you time, reputation, and coin. But it was what was best for the realm, for those other than yourself.”

    “And then you upstaged yourself. Reckoned with those looming shadows, faced your own mistakes and those of your forefathers. Were ready to pay for it all, too.” She glances up at Merlwyb’s belt, where the pistols hang, “I do not regret joining the Legion - much in the same way you cannot regret being caught in a landslide. It was the wrong choice, but it was the only one left to me.” Her eyes trace down to the city itself.

    “But the Maelstrom? This was the right choice. If you wish me to leave, I will abide by your orders. But I cannot retire. If you would have me, though, I would prefer to continue on with you. Although, I would not complain if my missions in the future are less dangerous, or not as solitary.”

    “What, then? Am I supposed to send you back into the storm? Accept that eventually, I’ll send you out to never return?” Merlwyb’s eyes could bore holes into the papers on her desk, and the wood beneath them. “Am I supposed to accept that, when I’ve been given a chance to repay you for your deeds?”

    “We all have to play it by ear. Have to keep the faith.”

    “If you die, it will have been-” Her hands slam down onto the wood.

    “Who says I’ll die again?”

    “An educated guess. You’re certain? We could set you up with a workshop, a home on the Rhotano. You could leave the rest to us.” Her voice is leaden with frustration left to sit and tangle. The dismissal forms and property deeds sit neatly stacked between her planted fists.

    “I’d certainly be leaving things in good hands. But no. I’ve chosen my path, Merlwyb. I don’t intend on straying from it so late in the journey.”

    She turns from her desk, and follows Vavara’s gaze into the city. It’s high sea pillars and white stone bridges nearly glisten in the sunlight. She listens to the tiny sounds of gear and cogs ticking, the soft omni-present hum of her core. Dimly, some part of her has a realization.

    In the deafening quiet, in the peace, her whole body sings. Not a corpse, fetid and possesed. Not a thing created of violence and death alone. A music-box, the spirit of its creator alive within. It would be cruel to disregard her wishes. Would it be crueler to let them go unopposed? In her position, what would Raubahn have done? Or the Seedseer? What would her father have done?

    Answers rush forward, but none of them find purchase.

    “Very well. I’ll see the dismissal redacted.” She concedes. It feels like all the wind rushes out from her, a fatigue setting in immediately. “But afterwards, I’ll see you take that rest.”

    “As you say, Ma’am.”

[sootcloak]

Day Four: Baleful

Had the idea for this one after a close run-in with someone I’d not wanted to speak with again. Which isn’t usually a good sign but here I’m really proud of the results. Plus, this time its not taking place around the same time as the other three! Short again. Just shy of 500 words.

AO3 Link

Content warning for implied abuse.

        A tall Hyuran man stares straight into the prototype’s face. Neatly trimmed hair and a well-sculpted beard grant him an air of refinement and civility. His expression, a mixture of pride, shock, and awe, slowly washes back into a steady, even smile. The weapon itself is cold, motionless. Its own eyes, slitted pupils and all, don’t so much look at the man as they look through him and into the unknown distance. Its tail, even, does not move. Armored as with the rest of the thing’s body, it resembles less a cat’s and more a pangolin’s.

    “It’s running?” He speaks loudly. Authority rings with the two words.

    “For the moment.” The disembodied voice which answers through the intercom system overhead is measured and even. Her words light and clipped.

    “Is it operational? Is it ready for me to show it to Lord tol Scaeva?” He steps closer, runs one hand over the permanent helmet affixed to the once-warm frame of the man beneath.

    “Soon.” She says, typing audibly for a brief moment. “I think. Some last bits of troubleshooting and-”

    “You think? If your incompetence embarrasses me before him again, you’ll suffer the consequences.” He interrupts her, turning his head, but not his eyes, from the prototype before him.

    “The Magitek Knight is…” The voice pauses, “The augmentation process did not kill him, this much is true. But his mind has been difficult to prompt to action. Something about the aether transfer process from his body into the core damaged it, and has rendered him unresponsive.”

    “You said you’d solved this problem.”  

    “I’ve made the transfer as safe as I could - the soul transfer killed Jo- Er…” She pauses again. “It killed Subjects Four through Twelve outright. That he’s not just a corpse is a relief.”

    “A relief?! If it cannot fight, cannot kill, on command then it is as useless as a broken blade!” The man takes a long breath, adjusts his uniform at the collar and gloves, and pats the sides of his jacket. The deep navy tones of his armor and jacket are sharp against the whites of the test chamber, even through the tinted glass of the observation deck. He stares directly into the window, where he knows the speaker is standing atop the stool within. “Either fix it, or discard it and begin again.”

    “...” The soft hum of the intercom is not broken by her voice.

    “Have I made myself clear, Architectus?” His voice is smooth and acrid.

    “Yes, Llain.”

    “Pardon me?” He almost whispers.

    “Sorry, sir. I’ll see to your instructions immediately, Centurio Corvus.”

    “And Vavara?”

    “...Sir?”

    “Don’t forget that the only reason you weren’t the first one in line for augmentation is that nothing we could do will make you suitable for combat. Your only use to me - to the Empire - is what you make for us here. And if you’re no use to them, even I won’t be able to protect you.”

    “Of course, sir.”

[sootcloak]

Day Three: Scale (Here defined as ‘to remove the scales as by scraping’ or ‘to take off in thin layers’.)

I’m falling behind. But luckily I will wake up on Sunday and get to work again to complete day three’s prompt. This one’s not long, but it is longer than my last one. Just shy of 1000 words. Had some real trouble writing this, and tried a lot of variations. This is the only one that felt anywhere approaching right.

AO3 Link

Once again, it follows the events of the previous two, but neither need to be read to understand this one. Wasn’t my plan going into this to write in this fashion, but it’s been a surprisingly good tool to feel out where Vavara is now that I’m stepping back into her shoes. Since all my old RP contacts have moved on and I don’t have many friends to keep up with on Aether anymore, it’s been hard to piece together where she is in her narrative. Doing this is helping, though. Silver linings.

    It was to an insistent nudge that Vavara woke. Her portable aetheric converter humming and vibrating on the table, still plugged into the brass socket where her right arm would meet her shoulder. She’d plugged in and then lost consciousness in the late hours of the night, she remembered that much. Which should mean she was still in the Rising Stones. Her arm itself lies next to the blessedly quiet machine, still armored in its’ gauntlet. Tataru and Y’sthola stare expectantly at her as though waiting.

    “...Is something amiss?” Vavara says, eyes filling with emerald light as her body clicks and whirs to life.

    “Nothing serious, be at ease.” Y’shtola says. It takes a moment for Vavara to decide whether or not she believes her.

    “Am I needed somewhere? Work? I’ll disconnect-” As she reaches for the cord, Tataru steps atop the adjacent seat at the table and holds Vara’s free hand steady.

    “No, no. It would have been rude, saying this last night with how on edge you were. But I can’t help it-” Tataru’s free hand reaches over and pulls one of the thick, splitted knots in her hair away from her head. “-if you don’t take care of this soon it’ll damage it. So I figured I could help! I’m something of an aesthetician, myself!”

    “I am more than capable of handling my own care and hygiene. I’ll grab my shears and resolve it. Apologies, I tend to forget that I can’t feel when my hair gets tangled or pulled on, makes it hard to remember to brush everyday.” Vavara’s words come out stilted and awkward, embarrassment poorly masked. Y’shtola just narrows her eyes.

    “Shears!?” Tataru’s face wrenches up in disbelief and horror, “That won’t do at all, you’ve gotten it so long, after all! It would be such a waste.”

    “Tataru, it isn’t real. It doesn’t grow the same way. If I really want long hair again, I could just go get some more.” Vavara, nonplussed, pulls at some of the loose strands idly. “Though I am surprised I hadn’t noticed its… condition. I’ll rectify it at once.” She reaches over into her bag, set neatly against the leg of the table. When her hand emerges, a pair of chocobo shears flash and gleam.

    “No, no! I insist! All of the scions have cut their hair so short, save Estinien. And while he may stall by running off for distant lands, I’ll fix that terrible mop of his too, eventually.” There’s something genuinely threatening in the way she growls the last few words, giving Vara pause.

    “It would likely be best just to submit yourself to her care for the time being. Tataru is an expert in these matters, after all - she’s helped all of us with our equipment and matters of fashion.” Y’shtola’s words come out half-choked by a suppressed laugh. Vavara’s eyes glide back and forth between the two.

    “Are you certain? Surely you’ve something more important to do?”

    “Oh please, it’ll take hardly any time at all, and it’s not every day I get to help in this way.”

    “... Very well. Do as you see fit.” She sets the shears aside, and hugs her ribs with her arm.

    “Since you’ve been so good as to acquiesce already, I’ll be taking your armor. So you should change into something more casual for the time being.”

    “Right, I’ll-” Vavara stops herself, body tensing and a strange, cornered expression suddenly possessing her. “No.” The urgency of the word silences the room. Her body tenses, lights flickering in the thin lines which run along her joints with rabid energy.

    “It’s aetherial composition is compromised, and you can’t cast the magic necessary to repair it anymore. Unless you want it to crystallize next time you’re struck by an earth-aspected spell, you’ll just need to have it treated.” Y’shtola says, voice even and insistent, but quiet. Soft.

    It does nothing to ease Vavara’s raising panic. 

    “Very well.” The Archon kneels slowly and locks eyes with her. “I’ll call Hoary Boulder over linkshell, and ask him to keep guard at the entrance. I checked our wards while you slept. Right now, it’s just you, Tataru, and myself in here. You needn’t worry yourself over some theoretical danger lurking in the shadows.”

    The rising sense of electrical tension plateaus, and Vavara visibly tries to relax. It doesn’t do much. The flickering lights in the seams of her body, the wild look in her eyes. None of it vanishes, or is in any way reduces by the attempt.

    “I trust you.” She hisses, the words are forced. Strained. Only coming out with great effort. She looks to Tataru, an unspoken question hanging a moment.

    “Oh! You can change over in the antechamber or the Respite.”

    She unplugs the cords attached to her shoulder one at a time, and then throws her satchel over her shoulder. With antsy, nervous steps, she flits over to the Respite.

    “Whew…” Tataru breathes a sigh of relief a few long seconds after the door closes. “For a bit there I was scared she would just turn and run out the front door, the way she looked at us.”

    “While I knew she would be apprehensive, I see now what G’raha meant when he said that we should ‘watch over her closely’.” She casts a long glance at the arm on the table. “How long has she done everything while looking over her own shoulder, I wonder.” She shakes her head, feathered earrings bobbing and swaying.

    “I’ll call Hoary Boulder. If you would have her leave her armor there by the converter, I’ll get to work once I’m off the shell with him.”

[sootcloak]

Day Two: Aberrant

Lighter, and much shorter, than yesterday’s work. Follows up sometime after Day One’s prompt, but neither is required to understand the other. Choosing to not tag characters again since this one’s so short and doesn’t really feature anyone so much as just set a general mood.

Roughly 500 words. AO3 link.

   Vavara sits nervously at one of the tables in the Rising Stones. She does well to not show it outwardly, her aching discomfort.  You shouldn’t be here.  Her mind would call.  I have just as much a right to be here as Hoary Boulder.  She told herself. You do not belong. You are not like them. The seething uncertainty would rise to meet her words.  No. I don’t. And I’m not. But I am trying. Haurchefant would have told me that was enough.  As soon as he comes to mind, regret springs forth like viscous, fetid tar. Guilt.  If you had not left after the banquet, he would still-  Shame. Resentment without a clear target.  You don’t know that.

    Laughter echoes from around the corner, and she pulls at the thick fabric of her coat for just a moment. Feels it stretch and groan a bit, the reinforced fibers bending well. It grounds her. She thinks of her equipment. Needs to rebind the strap on her rifle, it’s wearing thin. And her scope needs to be dialed in again. She thinks of the good, cool winds and fair weather in Mor Dhona. Of the lovely lights in the sky outside. Anything. But the quiet voice returns all the same.

    If you had been more like them, purer of heart, more decisive, he would be here. Coward.

    Her eyes glaze into the distance a moment, the faces of those she’d abandoned appearing one at a time in the foggy depths of her mind.

    You left your family. Your country. Your comrades. You’ve left them. All to die. What makes you think you deserve this, after all that’s come to pass. You don’t belong here. You need to-

    A gentle hand taps on her shoulder, faulds of black fabric, tattered in places, eclipsing Vavara’s field of vision.

  “Would you mind if I sat with you? The other tables are occupied.” Y’shtola’s voice rides under the hubbub at the bar. At that moment Hoary guffaws and Riol goes for a hefty swig. The lively air is warm, and loud. Across the room, hidden from Vavara’s sight at this angle by a thin screen, is another table.

   Vavara’s expression is one of unmasked surprise, but only for a moment.

  “Do as you will.” She mutters. And so she takes a seat, sets a book down onto the wood, and traces her fingers along the indented paper.

  Others come and go from the corner table to see Y’shtola. Urianger, to discuss aetherological theory. Thancred, to ask for aid in imbuing the ammunition his gunblade uses. Alphinaud simply takes a seat, and begins to read a text of his own. Neither does it come to a close with him. Instead, more come and go as they feel, slow and gentle in their cadence.

   With each passing interaction, the Archons quietly draw her from her distant, vacant stare. A question on the theory behind her core’s conductivity to aether here, and one on how she procures her aetheric ammunition there. A quiet bit of smalltalk on Garlean education compared to Sharlayan. An offer of snack or tea for the late night. An invitation to spar, come morning.

   With each tiny interaction the quiet, hissing voice fades.

[sootcloak]

Day One: Foster

For a Future yet Unseen

Warnings need to be applied before going on to the piece itself; This one goes to some dark places in general, and depicts a character struggling with suicidal tendencies, and graphically describes injury and death.

Roughly 1600 words. AO3 Link

I’m not going to put this on character tags for the reasons above, so be aware that this work involves dialogue from G’raha in case you don’t want to read anything which involves him.

   “What is it?” Her hair, tangled and greasy, bobs as she turns her head to look back at the Seventh Heaven. Panting in the threshold of the door, G’raha Tia holds up one finger. A moment passes, and he catches his breath.

    “You are to leave, then? With so much yet undone? Even Ser Estinien has-”

    “Spare me the high and mighty speech,  Exarch .” The lalafellin woman cuts him off, voice sharp, metallic and bitter. “I answered your call, aided your order while the Archons were away, and worked to reign in the Tolophoroi because it aligned with my needs. Now, I return to my work.”

    G’raha reels a moment at her tone, then gathers himself, a familiar restraint creeping into his words.

    “Your work is important - hunting heads so as to protect those less fortunate than ourselves. But you are, to put it lightly, overqualified. Your skills are needed here, joined with ours.” He extends one hand, ruby eyes unflinchingly gazing down to her.

    “No, they’re not.” She breaks eye contact, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “And besides - if and when I am truly needed, I can be called by a number of means. Azem should-”

    “Do not call them that.” The sternness in his voice catches her, emerald eyes matching his for just a second.

    “Your hero should be able to summon me whenever they please. Besides, best not to let you get used to me. Once all this is done, the Empire in the grave, Fandaniel put down?” Her voice softens and she pauses a beat.

    “After that, I’ve only one task left to me.” She glances up at the sky, awash in rainbow hues, ambient aether built up in colorful clouds. The silence sits there, uncomfortable and weighty. The thin crowds mill about their business, the air humming with soft waning activity.

    G’raha steps slowly from the pub, until he’s a couple paces from her.

    “Vavara, there’s more to life than the duties we must undertake. More for us here than the purposes we were made for.” His voice is low and gentle, but insistent - a warm undertow.

    “Don’t go trying to impart wisdom to me. I don’t deserve it and I don’t particularly like it, either. I chose this path. Let it guide me. The only conclusion acceptable after all I’ve done is to blast clean all I’ve stained this world with. The Weapons project is dead and buried, and once I’m sure none of it remains in the Empire proper…” Her hand brushes against her sternum, a grim air washing over her.

    “After that, only this body, my weapons, and my core will remain. I will not have it misused again. Not now, not in a hundred years, not in a thousand after my aether has dried up and this body has begun to rust.” She casts a brief glance at him, expression briefly softening as their eyes meet. “Oh come now, you’re an old man. Older even than me. You’re not so naive to believe I’d  want  to ‘live’ in this shell for eternity, are you?”

    “No. I know. But that does not mean we are without options-”

    “G’raha…”

    “Allagan cloning technology shows great promise, and while none of your original body remains in a condition we could use as a base for a newly grown body, we could see if there is a way to-”

    “G’raha.”

    “-restore your aether to a living form, rather than a primarily magitek one. Or perhaps we could simply make your life in a magitek body less uncomfortable, experiment with other kinds of crystal and stone. Try variations on the technology you’ve-”

    “Stop.” She pulls her cap from her head. Knotted locks tumbles out from beneath it in waves of gray and sandy brown, over her shoulders and down to her hips.

    “I don’t think I can face death as I have again.” She says. Softly, so quiet one can barely hear the metallic ringing in her voice. Her eyes trace upwards to the lights above.

    “But once? And then to bid everyone farewell, knowing I’ve done my part? That I had helped to raise a better tomorrow, quietly and from a distance? To know that I’ve made amends. I don’t need to live long, or happily ever after. To just know that would be enough. But if I stay, I will face it again and again. More viscerally than any of you have ever known.

    “I have died ; I was shot through the chest and lost my heart and half my ribs - I was saved, barely, but I felt my life leaving me. No healer could repair that foul of a wound. They worked around the clock to keep me just on the threshold of death’s door. I choked on my own blood and bile for days as my aether was moved to my core. Drowning and experiencing my soul being torn from my body, all at once. It was not pleasant.

    “I was scorched by artillery shelling when someone betrayed my position to the Imperials. Torched and thrown this way and that, until barely anything remained save for charred bones and fragments of hardened sinew. I felt every moment, every pounding detonation; My aether safe in my core and preserved to experience it all.

    “I was dashed to pieces in Rhalgr’s Reach, my head removed from my shoulders by the Crown Prince’s lackey. Wasn’t even worth his attention. But I still felt it. Felt as all my senses went black -no, worse, they were just  gone  - and all my bearings were lost. Not even  time  held sway in the abyssal depths of that crystal without any sensation to anchor me. For what could have been a dozen seconds or a dozen years, I waited, hopeful that I  wouldn’t be found - but destroyed - so as to just end the misery then and there.

    “And again, this time I’d grown clever enough, fast enough, viscous enough, and strong enough to challenge the beast at Ghimlyt. Lost my arm, those last few organs I’d had, and my legs there.  And again, I had to suffer through  every  moment of pain, every pulse of agony. Unable to do aught but  watch  as he nearly cut down the one, the ONE person I’d begun to place any stock in."

    “..."

    “I… I’m not strong enough to die again and have to live with it for…” Her voice stalls, eyes distant and posture stiff.

    “I think. I think I’d just like to be done, truth be told. There’s not much left of me. But a professional has standards, and I’m not given to leave a job half-done.” Her face remains fixed on the clouds of aether above, in their myriad colors and shapes, the night sky awash in a tapestry of foggy, rainbow hues. As the crowd thins and she stands by the lamp, G’raha says nothing. He just takes another step closer, and looks up at the sky besides her.

    “If you mean to finish what you’ve set out to do…”

    “I’ll have to face it once or twice more. I… I know.”

    “Had I but known you were struggling so much, I’d-”

    “What, you would have called down from your tower to  save me  ? I did not ask for your pity.” A trembling anger briefly flashes through her. “I  chose  this path. I’ll walk it, don’t think to drag me off it now.”

    “No, I don’t think I could. I was told I should save my breath - that you always depart after you’ve decided you’re ‘no longer needed’ . That no one had been able to convince you to stay. None of the Scions, or Archons, or Warriors who had reached out to you could convince you that you had a place here.” G’raha’s eyes slowly shift from one star to the other.

    “Because I don't.” The words are a weak, half-hearted hiss.

    “Perhaps not. But whether or not there is a place for you here, you need not make your journey alone. Whatever end awaits you, you need not face it with  your  strength and resolve  alone .”

    “I’m more than capable of-”

    “I know. I wasn’t suggesting that you are weak, or that your will is lacking.”

    “...”

    “If at the end of the road, you find your journey has ended, that there is naught else left for you save your duty? Then in that too, I would walk with you. To ensure you may rest at ease, knowing that you have indeed played your role. But pray, give me - give us - a chance to repay all that you have done for  us . You have answered our calls, our prayers. I wish to show you the future you have long labored to create.” He stretches a moment, and turns back the way he came. He glances back over at her.

    “Though you have been laboring in the dark for longer than I’d feared, there is yet hope. If you’ll let us show you, we would be proud to walk alongside you. But the choice is yours. If you feel you must face the final days of your journey alone, then I will not stand in your way.” He takes a deep breath. His eyes break from her, jaw set, walks into the Seventh Heaven, and disappears from sight.

    Vavara’s hand reaches for her sternum, the resonant clicking of the gears just beneath the surface rhythmically vibrating through her coat, her gauntlet. Her core burns in her chest, cold and stinging like alcohol on a wound. She tears her eyes away from the sky, and looks over her shoulder at the door, left slightly ajar. Her thumb brushes the brim of her cap, still held in her hand.

    “Forgive my cowardice…” She whispers.

    She pulls her hat over her head, the brim low near her eyes.

    She wrestles with the strap of her bag, the rifle and spear strapped to it clinking.

    And she turns on her heel.

[sootcloak]

Day 16: Crane

Alphinaud stops by the Dawn’s Respite to check in, and finds an unexpected face. He and Vavara share some small talk, and he tries something he probably shouldn’t have. Fluffy, comedic stuff - at least as close as you can get with Vavara.

~900 words or so.

AO3 Link

    “So. Two simultaneous holidays, one of which I know you observe, and all the entertainment and excitement an adventurous soul could ask for in the Golden Saucer, and you’re… here.” Alphinaud says, glancing down. He leans one shoulder against the row of bookshelves. The low light, the honey-scented candle smoking nearby, and the strong aroma of tea steeping nearby creates an atmosphere one would readily describe as cozy, were it not for the person at the heart of it all. “I must admit, I never took you for-”

    “I like the quiet.” Vavara says, before thumbing the page on the massive book in her lap. The armchair is poised to swallow her, and yet she still manages to hold a kind of nascent tension, like a serpent coiled in on itself. The way she says it, that innocuous phrase, makes Alphinaud suddenly glad to know her weapons are with Ironworks for maintenance.

    “That so? I suppose that makes sense, given how much of the last few years you’ve spent working alone. You’d have to enjoy the solitary quiet of the frontier to go for that long without some kind of group to keep you company. I’d wondered if that was why you’d elected to remain separate from us for so long, after all-”

    “I like it when it’s quiet, kid. That’s all. It is not that deep.” She stops him before he gains too much momentum for her to stop. 

    “Apologies, I hadn’t meant to-” He doesn’t stammer, but she can hear it coming again.

    “Oh for fuck’s sake, if you keep talking while standing over me, then I will be more than tempted to shoot you. You can choose; Keep looming there expecting me to put a crick in my neck looking up, or sit down and chatter to your heart’s content.” She jerks a thumb at one of the other chairs nearby.

    “Can’t promise I’ll listen.” She adds, seemingly as an afterthought.

    He opens his mouth to speak, and then sits down.

    “Want some tea?” She asks. “It’s not good. Isn’t really meant to be.”

    “...Pardon?” He glances at her cup. It looks normal enough. Though between the lingering ceruleum fumes which cling to her, and the candle at her arm, it’s hard to smell much besides the vague sense of herbs. Maybe something mustier?

    “Listen, I was just trying to be polite.” She flips another page. “I can’t taste anything that doesn’t fit into a few narrow categories.

    “Sour as salt-coated bitter-root.” She flicks her index finger up.

    “Sweet like frosted hard-candy.” She holds up her middle finger.

    “Rotten through all Seven Hells and beyond.” Three.

    “Or has too much going on. Think Gridanian fruitcake.” Four. She glances over, still having to look a little upwards to match his eyes.

    “Though maybe that’d be your style? I remember getting awful cravings at your age. Hard to tell if that just happens or if it was the concoctions I was downing at the time.” She shrugs. Some of the formal chill she ordinarily speaks with has worn off, he notices.

    “I thought you said you like the quiet.” Alphinaud says, a teasing note riding high in his voice.

    “I do. I also like you all. And very few of you actually like it quiet, you just say you do.”

    “I think I will have a cup, if you don’t mind. All that fuss, it can’t be worse than the stuff we had back in the academy.” He says, glancing at the pot steaming nearby.

    “Your funeral.” She grabs it by its handle, and pours half a glass for him one-handed.

    “...” He takes a long sip. She watches his face intently, setting one hand on the page so she doesn’t lose her place.

    First, he seems shocked. Then, he stops entirely, barely remembering to pull the cup away. His arm goes over his mouth, and he coughs. Loud. His ears are red, his eyes watering. He chokes for a few moments, struggling to catch his balance. He sets the cup down on the table, and stands as he seems to try to fend off the grim reaper itself.

    “Twelve forfend…” He looks near-about to retch, gasping for air in slow, ragged draughts. “Why was it so odorous going down…?” He seems to consider a long moment, connections going off one at at time.

    “That tasted like morbol’s breath.” The dread in his voice looms dark over his expression.

    “Oh. Good guess.” He expected there to be a bit of mirth there, a prank pulled and then some light laughs to let out the tension. No. A light note of surprise, but no delight in a trick well played. She just takes another, long drink from her own cup.

    “WHY ARE YOU DRINKING MORBOL SPIT IN TEA. NEED I REMIND YOU IT IS LITERALLY POISON.”

    “I already told you - what, you think I’m going to ignore one of the four terrible options I’ve left? Give up a quarter of the variety of flavors I still have? ‘Sides, can’t exactly get poisoned anymore. Has a nice, tangy after-taste, too. Kinda buzzy. Stings a bit.”

    “That’s the aetheric paralyzation!” He wishes, somewhere deep, that at the very least his indignation would bring a smile to her face. Instead, she tilts her head to her side and says,

    “Hm. Should I try basilisk extract next, then?”

[sootcloak]

Day Nine: Friable

This one was easier to choose a theme for, but is mostly just some old backstory for Vavara that I don’t believe I’ve put into words outside her carrd. Still, it was good to get it onto paper even if I know its not my best work. With how fast the prompts come, I can’t really afford to fuss honestly. Who knows, maybe its good and I’m just not able to appreciate it.

Still, I can’t help but feel my last several responses have been lacking. Can’t put my finger on why I’m having so much trouble this time, either.

~750 words. Don’t really know what else to say.

AO3 link

    A fierce, blowing wind, alarum quiet under its screeching wail. Fire in the bunker’s halls, the walls shaking and roof shivering like the head of a drum. The stench of oil and smoke and blood fills the air. Hard to breathe. The legionnaire pulls himself to his feet. Small pieces of rubble lie around him, dried blood over his eyes. Helmet’s still in the bunk. He goes to take a step. The world swims and twists, nausea overtaking him.

    He drops to one knee, barely stopping himself from retching onto the floor. The ground quakes. Has to move. Building could come down any moment. He pushes himself to his feet, leaning on the wall, and walks with unsteady steps. His thoughts are coming slow and laboured, but it's not far. The ground shakes again.

    But it doesn’t stop, this time. The whole world bucks, and for a brief, suspended second - the Legionnaire is airborne. He hits the ground hard, and hears footsteps behind him. Another soldier, running.

    The other man stops and glances down - shouts something. He can’t tell what, though. Ears are ringing. The other man looks backwards, all around, and then back at him, panic in his blue eyes. The other soldier stoops down, roughly grabs the Legionnaire, and throws him over his shoulder. He runs, or rather hobbles, as swiftly as he can. The shockwaves and tremors only grow more intense.

    Oh. Ceruleum. Fires must have reached the storage depot.

    The two push through the intensifying smoke and out onto cleared dirt, but the other man doesn’t stop. He keeps running with that limping gait. The Legionnaire can see lights in the distance. As they approach, the lanterns of other soldiers come into focus. The other man shouts something, loud enough to shake his bones.

    As they near the crowd, a spire of blue light appears behind them. Heat sears the back of his neck. The shockwave hits just a second later, throwing them and all those in front of them, to the ground.

    The regrouping Imperial leadership glance back at the castrum - what’s left of it - a burning crater filled with blue flame. In a few days, the flames will die out. But by then, all the evidence will have vanished. A science officer in dark blacks and blues has been barking orders since the bombs started going off, every brief once in a while casting his eye back over to the crater. Survivors, salvageable assets, evidence - he wants it all.

    The bombs had been planted in hard-to-reach locations throughout the base - crawlspaces only used and cleaned by magitek bits and small drones. The base’s research laboratories were particularly quick to go up in flames, suggesting a significant number of bombs were planted in the highest security locales of the castrum.

    Lord tol Scaeva hadn’t been contacted, the base was remote, and the communications tower was collateral in the base’s destruction. Magitek reapers were sent in, the men dressed in heat-retardant hazard gear to pilot them. They returned with scraps of twisted metal, and many corpses.

        She wakes from the nightmare - cold, soulless eyes staring back at her from beneath metal. The stench of sterile death. Her family left twisted and denied even an honest death. Built from blood and metal, to bring death to distant lands.

    She adjusts her kimono, and the strap of her bag. Her hood bobs, and she sits up straighter in her seat. The boat shifts under her, the crowded undercarriage filled with all sorts. Her tickets lie on the floor. As she scoops them up, the destination stares at her. Vylbrand. Limsa Lominsa. A nervous knot rests in her stomach.

    The chatter of a nearby merchant slowly sets her at ease, to the degree that when he addresses her later in the voyage, she speaks with a lightness and ease that she’d not known for years. Of home, Ala Mhigo. Of her travels, though there she speaks only in half-truths. Of her small, uncertain hopes. A new start. A quiet life. The merchant had laughed about that last one. And laughed again after the attack by pirates.

    He’d said, as they parted, that he doubted she’d see such a chance. Nowhere in Eorzea was ‘quiet’, he’d explained. But that nonetheless, he wished her well.

    As her feet touched the wooden dock, there was a thought. The castrum was gone, by now. Her life, maybe even her brother, all turned to ash and rubble. She casts the ugly thought from her mind - lets it too crumble away - and steps onto the fine white stones and towards the customs office.

[sootcloak]

Day 6: Avatar (Here using it’s primary definition as ‘a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth)

I’m still not fully satisfied with this, but I’m determined to get every single entry done on time for this run - and seeing as the 24 hour deadline doesn’t take effect until tomorrow, I still have some time to catch up on Day 7 and then do Day 8. I’ve a lot of writing ahead of me.

Roughly ~600 words. Only involves Vavara, as she reflects on how her body has changed as the years have gone on.

AO3 Link

Vavara touches the lip of the mirror. And then with an unsteady slowness, moves her finger onto the glass itself. The metal of her hand clinks with the contact. The fired steel is painted black, but faded and chipped over time. Her eyes wash from her reflection, onto her arm. The fiber mesh muscles, the clockwork joints, and dimly glowing ceruleum tubes visible through thin cracks in the exoskeletal prosthetic.

Is it right to even call it that, anymore?

She follows the curve of the metal up to her shoulder, and glances back at the mirror. It used to meet her body there. The metal and her were knitted together with ugly, but expert, craftsmanship. Now it was all bundles of cords in fabricated muscles, plated in that same drab, painted steel.

She throws her undershirt on. Didn’t have the time to examine every part of herself, thinking of what once was. Besides, it wasn’t the metal which bothered her. It was the disparity. The way it made her fear another’s eyes or hands. Their judgement. The way it made her feel weak. The helplessness. The way her body had always ached -hungered for too much, unable to fully sate either side- when it was bound to the machine. The slow deaths. The way that now, with so little of her left, the machine felt more real - the rest deadened.

Her right arm, partially intact after all these years, looked almost normal at first glance. And yet, it was all distant, dull, delayed. She stretches her shoulders, the dissonance nagging at her. One felt immediately present, hyperreal, every strand of metallic fiber, every cog, electrical wire, and thin line of coolant or fuel running through her shoulder and into her arm. She could feel them all, certainly, but she could also flex them. Turn them on, or off, execute a minute level of control never afforded to her when she had lived.

It would be so easy, if she just gave up on the way she wished to look -and sound and feel and hear and- Fashioned for herself a body meant for the work left to her in the coming Final Days. Unconstrained. Free and violent as a tempest, a metal gale which could finish her work with bloody abandon unburdened by the need for anyone else’s attention or aid. All it would take would be to give in, bend the knee. Lose herself, become the weapon alone -built from death to deliver death- and she could have all the strength she needed.

But then, late and numb, the sensations come in, completely different and wholly vivid. Her other arm. The faint, steady pump of blood and oil and ceruleum she can barely make out. The gentle softness of the false skin in the palm of her hand. It does not feel real. A lucid, waking dream.

She opens her eyes, surprised for a moment she’d even closed them. Gazing back at her is an image from a dream she’d had a dozen years prior. Of the person she’d wanted to become. Marred by the years’ passage, and not quite who she had imagined at the time, but still she’s there. Her hair is long and disheveled, colored to look appropriate for her age, a fading blonde and light grey. Her eyes cast an uncanny light onto the glass, but are the same blue-green hue as they were in her childhood. All the scars, the portions of her body subsumed by gunmetal, the unsubtle seams which run along her joints and along the profiles of her face - but she is there in it all.

She reaches out with one hand. Grey, clammy skin presses against the glass. The cool sensation fades into her perception. She shares a brief, faint smile with herself, and then finishes getting dressed for the day.

[sootcloak]

Day Eight: Adroit

This one was fun to write, but probably not as interesting to read, as its an evolution on something I’ve written on before on my own time. Involves some of the Scion mages, Y’shtola, Urianger, and G’raha Tia. I thought about including Aplhy & Alisaie but elected to keep the number of characters lower than half-the-damned-cast of the game.

Roughly ~1000 words of fumbling with the mechanics of the in-universe lore as best I can. Was almost three times that length, but I cut it apart as it dragged on since it was less interesting to read in such a long format.

(I’m almost 100% going to follow through on this one and add a chapter to it down the line, because the emotional payoff from all of this technical & mechanical setup could be a lot of fun to write.)

AO3 Link

       The staff was heavy in her hands - the weight familiar but faded. Cid stares expectantly. Behind her, she can feel the grim shadow of the Scion mages' collective attention.

       “As I’ve said before, this isn’t going to work. Ever since losing the portions of my body which the aether would flow through, magic has been beyond me.”

       “Please, indulge us.” G’raha says, a tomestone in hand. “The readings this gives us could prove more important than any of us would suspect.”

       She scowls and grumbles wordlessly, but readies the old catalyst. Focuses her attention on the target dummy. In her mind, she walks herself slowly, carefully, through the incantation. She remembers the somatic components, moving her hands through the motions which would, ordinarily, carves small runes of light into the air. She swings the staff to bear, focuses her aether and-

       The staff’s end, tipped in a crystal ball, sputters and sparks. A crack runs through it, a deep hum suddenly echoing from the catalyst. Then, all at once, the sound and sparking light stops. The staff explodes.

       Steel and glass pepper the immediate area, a deathly frost spreading across the ground and covering Vavara’s left arm in a dainty layer of rime. The sound of the detonation is deep, bassy and oddly distant. Parts of the staff are wholly missing. The lower half of the staff abruptly ends in her hands as a smoldering rod of metal.

        Vavara, for her part, collapses immediately. Her aether sputtering and burning and scalding her insides with insistent heat. The faint lights which run through her body flare for a brief moment, shining like a star, and then all go dim.

       “Hit the release!” Cid shouts. She can’t hear him. A brief second later, and she jerks with a single flow of cool relief, fresh aether flowing into her core and the now-corrupt aether she’d used in the attempt flowing out. A small pool of oil and ceruleum drips onto the floor, trickling over her metal arm and down to her limp fingers.

       “Told you.” She wheezes out as hands grab her shoulders and pull her off the ground.

       “Her systems are experiencing rolling failures due to a surge of lightning aspected aether. Some of our instruments were fried by the hardline connection to her systems as well.” Biggs says, adjusting his goggles briefly. “What was the spell?” He adjusts his attention, looking over at Y’sthola, Urianger, and G’raha

       “‘Blizzard I’, if I remember correctly.” G’raha answers. “We wanted to keep the aether in question as far away from her weakness to lightning as possible…”

       “Will you be alright?” Y’shtola asks. Vavara doesn’t answer.

       “Her sensors are out-” Cid says, “She can’t hear or see anyone right now. That was worse than most of the direct levin-exposure tests we’ve run on her, if she hadn’t been connected to the release...” Biggs and Wedge help navigate her limp body to a nearby chair, and prop her up in it. The release cord, a thick rubber tube about the width of a roegadyn’s neck, is connected to her back and so getting her seated is an awkward task.

       “I’m going to establish a hardline connection, so we can type out questions to her while her systems are malfunctioning.” Cid moves between different terminals, typing rapidly.

       “What didst thou witness?” Urianger’s words are quiet as he stands besides the sorceress.

       “The aether channeling within her body was circulating properly, I’m certain of it. But it couldn’t be released for the spell. The incantations were being properly observed, the aether required for the spell was present, and the catalyst itself was built with her mechanical nature in mind…”

       “Yet when it came time for the spell to be carried out, the aether couldn’t be released.” G’raha finishes. “And so, the demand on the catalyst became too great, and it shattered. Why, then, would we have seen the manifestation of ice as the staff was destroyed? If the aether for the spell wasn’t released at all, we should have seen no effect whatsoever.”

       “Nay, the amount of aether the staff didst beckon forth was greater even than that which the spell wouldst have asked of our restricted companion. The aether upon which the spell did call was unable to leave her body, and so rather than channeling itself into an aspect of stasis, did instead repeatedly attempt to eject itself into the catalyst as per the spell’s instructions. In so doing, the aether was made too active, and was in this capacity converted and corrupted. But as the spell had created a theoretical vacuum of needed energy, it drew it instead from the atmosphere itself.”

       “That explains the staff’s destruction. Perhaps it would serve to - No…” Y’shtola stops herself and seems to withdraw into her own thoughts.

       “So the aether involved in the spell doesn’t matter, as it’ll be aspected into lightning as a result of the heightened aetherial activity she exhibits during spellcasting.” G’raha takes another long look at Vavara, and then at his tomestone.“ May I ask her a question, Cid?”

       “Aye. I got a green light on the connection.”

       “Does she use any simple spells, like ‘Return’ or ‘Teleport’, which most adventurers know?” Cid types G’raha’s words swiftly.

       “No.” Her words are quiet, but unmistakably audible from the corner. “Emergency teleport is possible, but unreliable. Sometimes it reverbs, sometimes I’m fine.”

       “Does the reverb take place before or after the teleportation?” He follows up, waiting patiently as Cid's keyboard clicks.

       “Before. Stops the cast. Risky to try.” She answers.

       “So there are times where she can make use of simple spells using little aether, but only unreliably. Would you check to ensure that’s correct?” He glances up at Cid, who’s already typing.

       “No - never works as intended. I have to teleport just my core, leave the body & armor behind.”

       “Strange, Aetherytes usually bear the aetherial burden of teleportation, hence the fee upon arrival taken by the local jurisdiction.” G’raha looks between his colleagues with a bemused look in his eyes.

       “Plenty of mages wear armor, or ornamental bits of silver and gold.” Y’shtola clicks her steeled claws together. “So why does she need to leave her body to teleport?” Urianger suddenly sits up straight, alert. He looks to Cid, and speaks.

      “When she doth speak of her body and her armor, is she speaking of the body she doth inhabit and the armor it wears, or the armor which surrounds the crystalline core her soul is enshrined within?”

       “The core’s shielding.” Her voice is coarse, but definitive.

       “I would present my theory once she is recovered.” He pauses a moment, and seems to consider himself. “Along with my humblest apologies.”

[sootcloak]

1st Lieutenant Vavara Kir Aceris Vara of the Maelstrom, awaiting a purpose further orders.