#zefstory

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Celebration

Celebration in the Crystarium, three days after returning from the Tempest.

'Verily, my friend, thou mayest rely upon our utmost discretion...'

'But surely you can't mean to conceal it?'

'That...is up to him.'

'...Alphinaud, who is this woman and what has she done with Zefiris?!'

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Day

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Gridania

Zef at 16, immediately following the death of her parents.

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Romance

Zef in Sharlayan, circa 1565 - 9

'...But as is seen frequently in the romances of that era, the hero's quest becomes an all-encompassing obsession; their great passion is their downfall, and all their striving leads only to madness and to ruin.'

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Family

Zef at 15 or thereabouts

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Magic: Part II

Paglth'an

Part I here

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Mount

Some weeks after the Vault

Snip from a fic:

It was a long time before she was able to do much of anything again, except weep, and rage, and stare dully into nothingness. The cold fury which had carried her from the steps of the Vault to Azys Lla and beyond had melted away, and she with it. She had collapsed, knew nothing of her return to the Manor. When she awoke, hours or days later, in her room - her room, not his - something within her had snapped, decisive as a killing blow, severing her self from her self. Zefiris Winterheart watched herself contorted in a silent, screaming agony of loss with the same detached gaze she turned out to the vacuum of the world. It was all the same, now; there was nothing to be done.

Nothing in Fortemps Manor was as it had been. Familiar faces were replaced with strangers, households servants having been given leave to attend to their grief. Strange, really, how someone kept so firmly ostracised on the margins of the House should turn out to be such a fundamental part of it.  The heart of it, perhaps.

When Zefiris finally emerged from her room and wound her way back to the stables, she was unsurprised to find her old companion gone, too. The world was empty, now, after all.

Like the household servants, the stable hands had also been given leave. In their place was a big man, burly, gruff.  He was carrying an old trowel, a bucket and scrubbing brush as he came towards her. He looked vaguely familiar.

'Excuse me.' Zefiris’ voice was hollow, cracked from disuse. 'Where's the bird that was stabled here?'

The man turned to her, contempt in his eyes.  If he recognised her, he gave no sign. 'The big meanie greenie?’ he growled. ‘He yours?'

His pointless hostility rolled off her; she wasn’t interested, wouldn’t engage. It was all so distant, now. 'I’m not sure what you mean. My bird was in here, yes, but he's a standard palfrey.'

The man snorted, muttering: ‘Not any more, he ain't. Who’s idea was it to stuff a riding palfrey full o’ Mamook mix for a month straight? That’s feed for battle-birds, that is - you’ll be lucky if you get your arse up on that one ever again.’ Recalling himself, he added an insincere, ‘Begging your pardon, o’ course.’ Uncaring, she simply stared at him; she heard his words well enough, but they weren’t relevant to her question. When she didn’t react, he went on with his rant. ‘Bloody nobles and their hirelelings, no idea about the proper care of chocobos, none of ‘em.  Now, Lord Haurchefant, on the other hand…’ 

At the sound of his name she winced as if struck; that, at least, still penetrated. The man saw as much, and frowned. He nodded towards the empty stall. 'Anyway, that one’s been kicking the doors all morning, making a right racket, just as he has every morning for the last two weeks, so we’ve taken him down to the big paddock the Temple Knights use so he can run himself ragged, and give us all peace.’

The ringing in her ears subsided a little.  Camp Dragonhead, she realised. That’s where she knew the man from - he was stablemaster there. She’d seen him from a distance, but never spoken with him. Haurche had…Lord Haurchefant had thought highly of him, too.

 ‘I warn you, feed like that changes a bird, and now he’s got a taste for it, you’ll never get him off the stuff.  Best accept it.’

 ‘The Temple Knights paddock.’ she repeated the only part that had any relevance for her. ‘I thank you.’ Turning, she hefted the heavy Ul’dahn-barded saddle and bridle from the tack stand at the end of the room. It seemed a relic from another age.

Struck by sudden pity, the burly man called out to her as she passed through the gates, out into the city streets. ‘Careful, lass. Your bird’s not as he was.’ Zefiris gave no indication that she heard him, and disappeared down the stairs, out of sight. With a sigh, he opened the door of the vacant stall, and went about the grim task he’d been about to commence when the lady had arrived. Six dead rats to clean up, maybe seven - it was hard to tell, eviscerated as they were, entrails smeared on the floor, bloody splashes where they’d been dashed against the walls. 

—

Zefiris found Kokapetl just where the wrangler had said; pacing the fence of the large training paddock used by the Temple Knights, out behind the proving Grounds. The yard was quiet, the arena empty of other birds.

At her call, he turned, crest raised in greeting. It tugged the barest of smiles to her lips, as he trotted over to her. Before he reached the fence, though, he cut sharply sideways, charging off to the left and arcing around the arena at a heavy lope, talons pounding the earth. Less a greeting, she realised, than a challenge.

 ‘Fair enough,’ she said colourlessly. ‘I’d be angry with me too.’

As he looped back towards her, his posture was low, predatory; for a moment she strongly considered jumping back over the fence.  But there was no way he would harm her.  This was justified chastisement for her neglect, no more. He stopped about three yalms clear of her, and dropped low on his haunches, shrugging his wings, feathers ruffled. A low gurgling growl resonated in his throat, and he bobbed his head at her with manic fury. The display would have alarmed her, were it not entirely deserved.  As if anything could alarm her, anymore.

The wrangler from Dragonhead had spoken true; there were unmistakable patches of dark green slashed through his sandy plumage, lending him a scruffy, feral look. ‘Oi.’ she said firmly, palm up. ‘Calm’. Snaking his neck once more before subsiding, he lowered his crest, settled his feathers. Zefiris had never had to take such a tone with him before. ‘That’s better. Good boy.’ Reaching up to stroke his head, she remained tensed to pull her hand away, but he submitted to the touch, and dipped lower to allow her access to the accustomed spot. ‘There now, it’s all right.’

As if anything was alright, anymore.

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Ancient Times

'You are...nothing alike.'

I've not mentioned her here so far I don't think - this is Amalthea.

Amalthea was flighty, fearless, arrogant to a fault; a creature of sunlight who gloried in the strength of her own body, preferring physical crafts to creation magicks. She met scorn all her life for it, and cared not one bit.

Once, in her youth, her teacher instructed the class to each create a small, inanimate figure of some creation they had seen for their evening's task - they would have a special guest come the morrow's morn, who would judge their work. Each child conjured some vaporous image or small imitation, and left them anchored to the teacher's desk. Amalthea, however took up a branch and a knife, and whittled a small, horned horse - though she'd never encountered one outside of a dream.

The next morning came, and Amalthea, taking her desk, caught a look of fury from the teacher - but they could say nothing, for their honoured guest had arrived. Azem, the Traveller, come to their village for the first time in years - and their timing could not have been better, as a fierce aetheric storm was stirring . No sooner had the woman taken to her feet to observe and judge the children's work, than a sudden gust of aether quite dissolved all of the creations and set the building itself to trembling. Azem, with her winter-white hair streaming about her, stilled the storm and quieted the children - any lingering distress at the loss of their work quite forgotten after witnessing such heroics.

As she turned to leave, she noticed the wooden unicorn still sitting on the table, and her eyes fell immediately upon its creator - the quiet, smiling girl at the back of the room, who hadn't joined in the histrionics of her classmates, but stared back at the Traveller with a frank admiration beyond her years. Azem was intrigued by the girl, and went to speak to her. The Traveller declared Amalthea's creation the winner, having withstood the disaster which had claimed the other entrants. She introduced herself as Venat, and assured Amalthea she would be keeping an eye out for her in future.

When Amalthea eventually took on her mentor's mantle herself, she spurned the mask of her office outside the Convocation hall, preferring to go as one of the crowd, and favoured locales far from the Capital where baring one's face was more widely accepted.

Amalthea was not known for many lasting creations, preferring of course her practical arts, and to aid others in the conception and perfection of their own concepts. She did, however. propose words of power, incantations to help people regulate their emotional state. Syllables which, by their very utterance, would relieve stress, anger and frustration. In a sundered world, they don't work as intended anymore - but she effectively invented swearing.

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Mirror

Somewhere in time

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Spring

Early Heavensward

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Random ask time:

During the events of the Crystal Tower, before the Labyrinth, is Zef distancing herself from Raha because she really doesn't like him? Or is she just uncomfortable because she, at the time, doesn't know how to feel about him?

Eee thank you so much for asking! It's one of the downsides to doing everything out of order the way I do, that a lot of the actual *character development* gets a bit lost or confused - but I've accepted that I'd never get anything out of my head at all if I tried to write it all linearly! I'm working on a pinned post that'll sort everything I've posted so far chronologically in the not-too distant future :D

Zef is a very remote, withdrawn, and suspicious person at the beginning of ARR. She was isolated as a child, a subject of lifelong dysmorphia; a traumatic accident, and later the loss of her parents in her teens saw her become even more withdrawn and dissociated, and the culmination of all of this trauma came after years of isolated study in Sharlayan, where she suffered a complete nervous breakdown. She loses years to this, and only really 'comes to' in the aftermath of the Calamity, when she starts to rebuild herself.

Still, for a long time after her journey begins in ARR, she keeps everyone at arm's length, wary of them - and of herself. She's never really had friends, never felt herself worthy of interaction. Even when joining the Scions, it takes a long time before she'll let herself be anything other than the 'hired muscle' to them. Moreover, it's difficult for her to recognise genuine kindness and friendliness for what it is - though the more she comes to terms with it, the more she treasures those who offer it, quietly but intensely.

They wear her defenses down, over time and though trials. Even then, she remains aloof, suspicious, and continues to keep her distance. But among her comrades the Scions, the Ironworks crew - she talks more. Smiles more. Gradually starts to open up a little more - though she'll say nothing about her past - an that's where the core of her story starts.

However, as someone outside that trusted circle, G'raha does not get the benefit of the doubt from her. Zefiris has no time for him at all.  She feels like he made a fool of her at their first meeting - something she's been on guard against her whole life - and that's the definitive impression he leaves her with.

On the one hand, she recognises that he's putting on an act - a player knows a player, after all, and she's been acting a part for a long time. That doesn't soften her feelings towards him, though - the fact that he chooses to present himself as confident (which she reads as brash), and clever (arrogant), and capable (naive) is enough to put her right off him, and she doesn't care to think much beyond that initial impression.

In addition to that, though, there's the undercurrent that she doesn't want to admit: he's a successful scholar,  everything she tried and failed to be. Her irritation at his persona is as much a form of self-defense as anything else.

Similarly, although she can appreciate on an aesthetic level that he's attractive, *attraction* isn't something she feels like she's allowed to experience. Her own dysmorphia is so ingrained at this point, and has been for most of her life, that she believes that entire aspect of human interaction isn't *for her*, isn't accessible to her, to the extent that she barely thinks of it at all.   It's threatening, if anything, and she adds vanity to the list of things she finds annoying about him, despite having no real evidence of the fact.

Their relationship does change following the events of the Labyrinth; I'm working on a fic covering that at the moment. But even by the time G'raha goes to meet his destiny, they're no more than friends - for all that there's a quiet warmth nestling in his chest for her by the end, he'd never speak of it, and she still wouldn't understand it if he did.

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Cross

Gen, wc. 3188

CW: depression, anxiety, ptsd, memory loss.

Read it here!

Annotated screenshots below - some of these are very old, and please excuse my amateurish graphic design skills, it was an experiment!

Part 2 of the illustrations can be found here - having some real issues with a 30 image limit ngl ;_;

Part 2...

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Cross

Fic illustrations, Part 2 (Part 1 here)

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Job

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Magic: Part I

Paglth'an

Part II here

Part II here

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Negotiation's over.