AT DUTY'S END

many methods have been revealed unto her,   most forbidden,  others simply inescapable or rather,  inevitable.  his method in drawing out foundations before splitting them in half,  in wearing the portrait of a corpse whose silvery eyes should be long closed  —   irked her.  the display itself was not the first and perhaps it might just be the last.  clinging,  always clinging,  she finds.  clinging onto flesh,  clinging onto dead,  dry memories buried halfway beneath the shoal waters.  she would turn her cheek the other way if she did not find herself be pulled forward,  twice holding herself fast,  thrice reminiscent while sharpening a careful tongue. 

❝   their undoing is not what makes them beautiful.  ❞   umiko’s hands are ghostly,  fixed in space by the will of serene contemplation.  she does not glance at him again by the time the petal withered,  instead her gaze stretches beyond him,  through him.  so tangled the now - and - then becomes.   ❝   they lived,   they bloomed,  they brought colour to an otherwise grey world.  surely that is enough.   ❞  

𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐏.  those that were the ephemeral remaining.  those made majestic in the crumple of claw into careening fragments, moments inhabiting scattering ash cloud; they were made more, ostensibly, by how much they grasped the dead.  ( and there is a contradiction there — between the dead flesh one puppeteers, of muted light quickly blinkered out — to the true dead, of truest people — )  

he still believes it so.  faith: all that is left.  as the exposed beating heart of the first primal, still beating in reverence between exposed rib-cage maze.

the warrior of darkness — she peers differently than most; beyond, in a manner of which by rights should strike some semblance of familiarity in the heart’s mind.    but in contrast — to she who gazes beyond and through — his gaze is ever towards memories-turned-husk, that he dare not even see in their entirety anymore. 

  𝙄𝙇𝙇𝙐𝙈𝙄𝙉𝘼𝙏𝙀𝘿 𝘽𝙔 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙂𝙇𝙊𝙒 𝙊𝙁 𝘿𝙐𝙎𝙆, the Minstrel can hear her heartbeat with each pulsating thump. It blares louder than any melody she has ever sung, as the heat drenches her over her hands continue to quiver forming into that of a fist. Warrior of Darkness, what type of nonsense is that? She thinks quickly to herself but stands tall, regaining her balance within. 

  The howl of the wind, it shifts morphing that into a warning, the unknown is nearby. Ears lay flat upon the maine of inky locks, quickly does she pivot as her head cocks to the side - perplexed, bewildered. Laughter emits from her lips as she chimes, “Ah, we simply had a misunderstanding” the jubilant nature of a bard unwavering even when faced with an advisory of unimaginable strength. 

 She quivers inside, yet never shall she show it, unyielding to those who dare to trample upon the fragile balance that keeps their world from plunging into calamity. The Black Wolf once sneered the simple word, ascian, beings that were considered of the void - those of tremendous might. In the midst of battle, darkness && light collided, but she didn’t need to care for details, one thing was certain - tranquility must be restored. 

   PRISTINE WHITE, GOLD THAT BARES THE MANTLE OF POWER. As Ul’dah’s unforgiving sun comes to set, she nearly appears valiant in such glistening colors. “Who were they?” to the horizon, her eyes set forth upon as she looks at the remnant of battle, land that is torn asunder - arrows that pierce the ground. One is plucked, like a flower she grips it within her calloused digits, her body urges to attack - run, but she is grounded unwilling to succumb to cowardice.

   She needn’t hear the answer, in the coolness of the oncoming nightfall, Sayuri inhales the sweet air allowing it to fill her lungs as she tuts, her gaze sharp as a blade as she speaks. “It does not matter, light cannot thrive without darkness, thus is the equilibrium of life - you have traveled long to find me, not to speak of such ideologies” she ponders. Is this over Lahabrea or simply another omen that foretells the unwinding journey?

‘ Such is the plight of the Warrior, forever the mediator between forces. For that, I shall not fall - not until all is right within this world ‘

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐃, 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 — he has born witness to the endless epitaphs that heroes design themselves as such.  heroes, as a moniker for those that skitter across broken ground with broken understanding, existing as moot points along the pathways of constellations.  he, amongst all their remnants, those that stand taller as unsundered, in stride, in tandem with those garbed in black, the muted vestiges that they had been able to pluck from the shards, and gifted with the truth — he, amongst them all, knows how a hero stands.

e’er at attention to false divine.  they stand sure and taller amongst their peers, reinforced against the tides of wants and whims from lesser comrades.  they feel the correct hooks that he would lay in front of them — for glory, for honour, for wealth; they follow that line with what they consider to be apt thought.  apt enough for songs to be strummed in the wake of their deeds.  apt enough that they are reeled, and they are reeled to inevitable deliverance of duty, and doom.

they do not consider things as nuanced as the balance.  they do not inhabit the line in between with deftness and forethought.  and on that basis, the air around the emissary metamorphosed into something definitively more careful. 

it sharpens into the suggestion that the emissary is looking at her, behind the splashed ruby visage adorning his face.  similar, in the way that blood, swathed across the ground, all around, reflects the eyes that tries to find a reflection in there, somewhere, in coiling, scarred, after-battle mess. 

❛ those that did not meet their own preconceived measure. ❜  unfettered, unmoved; the dead die as they are always wont to do, he has seen too many to waste splintered seconds on eulogies.  he instead gives space for the warrior to speak, watches, keenly and carefully the way that she inhabits the desert air.  she is wiser than most. sundering divinity has chosen well, in that regard. 

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐎𝐃 — whether it’s your turbulent nature, your flash quick mind, or the air of unknown about you, your undercurrent is the lightning rod. you are somewhat unpredictable, but if we unravelled we’d see you know exactly what you’re doing, but it’s makes you feel less vulnerable to pretend it wasn’t planned. some people stay back from you, but others would follow you cross country, for the very same reason. they don’t know enough about you. the difference is in who wants to learn more. keep your golden nature, it’s exciting, but don’t be afraid to admit what you know. matshona dhliwayo said “lightning strikes but does not roar” your bite will always be worse than your bark, keep that close to your chest.

tagged by — @againthemartyr​ over discord !

They do not wait for a refusal, for a obviously retreat from his would-be retreat. He is adamant in this, they are firm in closing the gap. "Have you gone through so much that slashing someone's throat is the only option remaining to you?" Their voice carries the worry of someone who wears a similar mantle. A hero, a savior. Of someone who was once so lost in his rage and grief that they could see nothing else. His grip tightens, proving his point. Warm hand in his. 

Has your life been reduced to endless conflict, forgetting what made the world beautiful to begin with?" 'Have you forgotten the endless sacrifices, have you thought what you would do after your war is won', he wants to say. But hey - they - do nothing. Say nothing, nothing but that small gesture they wanted to get across. ‘

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 — the true thief amongst thieves. masterful, in the manner of which — known only to colossi, to the gods of gods, summoned from lifesblood or not — it takes, and it takes without recompense, a churning force that has broken them further since hydaelyn’s fateful, damning, shattering blow. time takes, and mayhaps it speaks to what he is, to what he has become, for elidibus to view it as an ever-stuttering and leeching coalescence of a thing. it takes. it does not give; the emissary and his brethren are not allotted that semblance of mercy. fate has not deemed the ghosts of a world-yet-to-be-saved-yet-still-lost worthy of that mercy.

time holds a different meaning; for each passing second ( and how there have been many, grains of sand tossed to the wind, errant, snatched away by the vestiges of shadows and shades, these people-not-people ) deifies itself as yet another moment wasted. the stretch of their old land sinking further, and further away from the brush of their fingertips.

time, lost, means that they are losing.

the hand is outstretched. it brushes, and it entangles. and how numb has he truly become, when the first instinct is not to snatch away, not to peel and untangle bone and marrow and flesh from that sudden touch — defter and more damning than a slick blade of steel. 

it is a strong grip ( the hypothesis proves true — ‘tis the grip of a warrior ) and throughout the curvature of his skull, old faithful voice rings out — enemy, enemy, danger — vaunted through the blood and misery of their own failures at striking him down. 

regardless, blue-flint eyes dart up; features ( borrowed, inhabited, heralded to new uses, better uses ) seized, pinched still — mouth parting, slightly. that hand is warm; it sinks through the metal angles of a warrior’s gauntlets, and that kindness —

— it burns —

          — it is irrelevant. —

❛  i have been tasked — ❜ and there, holy decree. time has not sunken away zodiark’s grasp, just as a heart cannot truly beat outside of a rib-bone cage. and those gauntlets, bitten, spiked edges to the fingers, sink upwards to that proffered wrist, iron-and-steel maws latching in, in, for if the rest of them have lost permeance, then he remains. the last one standing. ❛ — to renew and revive our world, and all those lost since. warmth, kindness — ❜ and it is embittered, and it is caustic, a phantom preaching archaic. ❛ is a concept you and yours believe venerate you from all that you have done. and it will come to —  ❜

      — it still burns, it is still warm —

   the name: reckoning. 

     a dead man’s eyes watch aeron in splintered azure.     the steel curve of the axe scrapes a crescent against the floor, an artless gesture turned purposeful with intent; the fake amuraot bleeds viridian into fathomless depths.      elidibus strings the dead body tight — shoulders squared, arm still stretched downward, bearing the weapon;    he has not quite curled in on himself, instead is orchestrates himself straight, chin tipped high. 

         ❛  bear your weapon. ❜      he speaks as Himself, has divested himself from the mask, the visage of ardbert from his voice, yet still wears his flesh.     ❛ it should be a familiar habit by now, no ? to turn might against a foe ? ❜

the only 5.4 msq spoiler that matters —