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a while back i also drew persephone, wife of hades, holder of the fourteenth seat of the convocationâ azem
she looks a lot like rinh but sheâs also probably a worse person than rinh in a lot of ways, since you donât become one of the fourteen most powerful people in a hegemonic society by being a good person*
*unless youâre venat. but thereâs a reason she quit
Thinkin about how Alisaie and Alphinaud Levelleur were prodigies, even in a nation of scholars (not to mention being from a wealthy and politically powerful family). They were definitely expected to earn their archon marks and do great things.
But instead of getting their fantasy PhDs in glowing squirrel theory or whatever, these two gifted kids dipped as soon as they finished high school to go backpacking in Europe Eorzea with their eccentric grandpaâs old buddies. Respect
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Thatâs right, folks - YEAR 4 of our annual FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge begins on Tuesday, September 1st at 12:00pm PST!
More Info:Â https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
Artist Volunteer Sign-up:Â https://forms.gle/bMojWcWWiUMXZzht5
Questions: My Ask box is open, or ask me on Twitter (MoenMoenFFxiv)
Need a warm-up? Here are some short weekly prompts to get the writing gears in motion:
I challenge you to keep your responses short while writing to these weekly warm-up prompts. Why? Because theyâre just warm-ups - a moment for your creative brain to stretch a little before running the marathon.
And, I want you to practice writing short because if, during the Challenge in September, you start feeling creatively exhausted from this marathon, youâll be able to think back to how short your responses to these warm-ups were and it may encourage you to submit something super short so that you meet your goal of writing every day without overtaxing yourself. I mean it when I say that short and sweet entries count. â¤ď¸ I will accept single sentence entries!
See if you can do one of these warm-ups each week leading up to the Challenge. If you want to repeat one or two of them multiple times, go for it! Whatever you need for your creative brain to feel good and ready.
I wonât be tracking responses to these warm-ups. Theyâre purely for your benefit. Use the hashtag #FFxivWrite2020 warm-up if youâd like.
WEEKLY WARM-UP IDEAS:
Write a haiku about your character
Write about your characterâs facial expression (10 sentences max)
Write a limerick about your character
Write about the sound of your characterâs voice (10 sentences max)
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(cw: violence, abuse, trauma. sexual assault is alluded to, but not directly depicted.)
To her surprise, Linawren realized that she quite likes the Beehive.
Sheâs not insensible to the charms of the performers themselves, of course. Bonded citizens like her are hardly their intended audience, of course-- everything that happens in the Beehive (much like everything that happens in Eulmore in general) is for the benefit of well-heeled free citizens. But gourmet cooking is more filling than meol whether or not itâs leftovers from some decadent feast for ladies and gentlemen of quality. So when Shai-Hann comes into the Beehive with Linawren on his arm-- to enjoy refined conversation, show her off to his friends, to be seen in public with a beautiful woman ornamenting his table-- Linawren is still going to take the opportunity to listen to the music, enjoy an atmosphere carefully cultivated to feel a thousand malms away from all the worldâs horrors, and admire the dancers.
Especially to admire the dancers, if sheâs being honest with herself.
But she also just appreciates the sort of fellowship that seemed to exist between the Honeybees. She wasnât a Honeybee herself, obviously, but she was in more or less the same line of work, and couldnât help but envy the sort of solidarity they enjoyed, and the way that gave them just a little bit of control over their own destinies, made them a little less at the mercy of a single patronâs whims (only a little less, granted; this was still Eulmore, after all). They looked out for one another-- and Linawren fancied that they looked after her, too, whenever she happened to be around. She spent less time worrying about Shai-Hann or one of his shitty friends taking liberties with her. She could feel confident she wouldnât be given the truly demeaning things that might be asked of her at more private engagements.
Tonight, the Beehive is quiet. Itâs late enough that most of the guests have already filtered out. Someone is lazily playing a piano, more just to set a certain tone than perform a recognizable piece of music. Linawrenâs reciting a poem for Shai-Hann and a couple of his friends-- Harald, a hume, a childhood friend of Hannâs whoâs grown up to be every bit as coldhearted and spoiled as Hann himself and a lanky elf she didnât recognize but whose name, apparently, was Godwyn. All three men are watching her intently, rapt with attention.
The poem in question-- Ode to the Night Sky-- is supposedly a relic of whatever far-flung land-- long since devoured by the Light-- Linawrenâs distant ancestors came from before they arrived in Voeburt. Actually, though, itâs her own composition. Free citizens like feeling that theyâre in on a secret, though, so Linawren puts as much effort into the tales of where her tales come from as she does into the tales themselves. All she really knows about her supposed homeland comes from her own fading memories of her mother and father, and all they had to work with was second-hand accounts of their grandparentsâ childhood memories: A song or two. A few basic dance-steps. A scattering of contextless words of a language irretrievably lost. But when Hann became her patron, he was under the impression that he now possessed the worldâs sole practitioner of an exotic cultural tradition scoured from the world by the Flood of Light. Linawren wasnât about to disabuse him of this notion-- selling him that fantasy was part of what kept her from being sent back into a shack in Gatetown with nothing to look forward to but just enough meol to starve more slowly.
Anyway, she likes writing. She was particularly proud of Ode to the Night Sky-- trying to vividly evoke a world sheâd never seen for herself was a fascinating challenge. When she closed her eyes, though, she could practically see it-- a wide and wild void, openness itself, decorated with a thousand thousand pinpricks of light, cradling the pale circle of the moon. Writing was transportive-- a chance to project herself into a time or a place better than the one she lived in, even if in the end she had to attribute her work to some long-dead and mostly fictitious ancestor.
When she finally finishes, the whole table fell silent for a few moments. Godwyn is moved to tears-- Linawren isnât sure if he was actually that affected by her words, or if he just sees some advantage in appearing to be of sufficiently sensitive temperament to be so moved by poetry, but she doesnât particularly care-- either possibility meant sheâs earning her keep. Harald, as usual, is just trying to look down her top, but at least heâs not actually talking to her. Hann affects cool nonchalance, as if to say this is the sort of artistry I take for granted, but he has enough of an air of smugness for Linawren to know he was pleased.
Hann breaks the silence. âBeautiful as always, my treasure.â
She takes a bow, pointedly ignoring how carefully Haraldâs eyes track her movement. She smiles warmly at the men. Learning how to smile the right way is a skill every bit as important to Linawren as singing, dancing, or writing. Free citizens can spot a fake smile that doesnât reach oneâs eyes from malms away, and they feel insulted by it-- they want you to be genuinely grateful to be in their presence. So she smiles-- encouragingly to Godwyn, coquettishly to Harald, knowingly to Hann.
âSo!â Godwyn says, âShall we call it a night, gentlemen?â
Harald groans. âDo we have to? Waiting for your eyes to adjust once you go out into the light after spending so long in here is quite disagreeable, and frankly Iâd rather put it off as long as possible.â
âNot like weâve got anywhere to be,â Hann says, laughing, âWhy donât we prolong the nightâs festivities with a bit of friendly wagering, eh? Hide the High Heart, maybe?â
Linawren doesnât actually look longingly at the bar-- her smile never falters-- but she does so in spirit. Sheâs going to be stuck here for hours, probably. Whenever Hann gambles, he expects Linawren to perform-- to distract his opponents enough to keep them off-balance enough for Hann to get the upper hand, but not so much they realize thatâs what sheâs doing.
So while Hann pulls out a deck of cards and shuffles it, Linawren does a few stretches. When he deals the first hand, she begins to dance, an enticing twirl of flowing silks and lean muscles.
***
It is hours later-- if the sun could still be discerned through the thick soup of light blotting out the sky, Linawren supposes it would have long since risen.
It has been a disastrous night for Shai-Hann. Maybe itâs because Godwyn is an unfamiliar opponent-- Hann hadnât taken his measure yet, hadnât learned his tells. Maybe itâs because Harald is sick of being cleaned out every time the cards come out. Or maybe it was just plain bad luck. Whatever the reason, though, the mystel gentlemen has been hemorrhaging money in hand after hand. He quickly burns through the sack of gil heâd set aside for gambling, followed by the rest of the gil heâd brought along, and then anything else of value he had on his personâ his lucky Voeburtite goldpiece. An electrum pocket-watch. The elven rapier he always wore at his hip.
Godwyn keeps his head above water and calls it quits after heâd turned a tidy profit-- he didnât want to stay this late anyway, so he had no reason not to just take his windfall of gil and go. Harald, though, smells blood. Heâs amassed a veritable treasury of Hannâs possessions on his table, coins and jewelry and golden bric-a-brac glittering in the lamplight. The two gamblers are locked in a death struggle-- the more Hann loses, the more urgently he tries to win it all back, the more recklessly he bets. Harald extracts the deed to Hannâs private airship berth, then the airship itself, then a series of promissory notes for increasingly astronomical sums.
âYou should probably just cut your losses at this point, Hann,â Harald says, watching intently as Hann signs yet another check and slides it across the card table.
âOne more hand,â Hann says, insistent.
âWhat, so you can write me some more bloody I.O.U.s?â Harald scoffs, âPast a certain point, gilâs just a number in a ledger somewhere. I donât really feel the need to stake any of this on the possibility of that number getting a bit higher. At this point, I feel like some sort of⌠mercy rule, or what have you, ought to be invoked. To save you from yourself.â
Linawren is still performing half-heartedly, but she can tell neither man is paying much attention to her at this point. She gives her patron an appraising look; she can practically see the gears turning in his head as he works out what he could still bet that a.) wouldnât run the risk of actually putting a dent in his obscene wealth compared with the vast majority of people in Norvrandt, but more importantly, b.) actually entice Harald into playing another hand.
To Linawrenâs surprise, Hann meets her gaze. The look in his eyes is cold and calculating, even by Shai-Hann standards. He then directs that baleful gaze towards Harald, but Harald barely seems to notice-- his own attention seems to be fixed firmly on Linawrenâs ass.
âIâll bet Linawren,â Hann says, finally.
Linawren stops dancing mid-step. Through a superhuman effort, she manages to keep her face arranged into a pleasant expression-- sheâs a professional, after all-- but sheâs still visibly stunned.
âWhat?â Harald says, laughing.
âI know youâve taken a liking to her ever since I took her on,â Hann says, âSo if you stake the pot, Iâll stake her. I win, I get my things back. You win, I sign over the papers and sheâs your bonded citizen.â
âDeal!â Harald says brightly, not hesitating a bit.
âAre⌠are you sure about this, Hann?â Linawren murmurs into Hannâs ear.
âShut up,â he hisses, sweat beading on his forehead, âYouâre distracting me.â
Harald winks at her.
As Hann deals the cards, Linawren can feel a cold, dead weight settling in the pit of her stomach. By the time Hann and Harald are ready to flip their last card, sheâs standing stock-still, her heart is pounding. She felt as if all her scales were about to just vibrate off her body.
Hann flips first. Itâs the ten of hearts-- a fairly respectable draw, all-in-all. Hearts trump the other suits in Hide the High Heart, so unless Harald has a hearts face card, the hand goes to Hann.
So of course Harald flips over the Lord of Hearts.
Like most decks of cards designed and printed in Eulmore, the Lord of Hearts is rendered in the image of the cityâs honored leader, patron of patrons, Vauthry. Whatever bonded illustrator drew this tried so hard to flatter Vauthry with their likeness that it barely resembled the man himself-- he was an avenging angel with flowing golden locks, flanked by docile sin eaters in the form of semi-nude women with alabaster skin and golden blindfolds. With one hand, heâs dispensing a cornucopia of meol to the huddled masses of Kholusia. In the other, heâs plunging a spear of pure light into an allegorical figure representing the forces of darkness who would destroy the concord between man and sin eater which made all of Eulmoreâs wonders possible. But the angel was still recognizable as Vauthry because it had the same insufferably smug air about him.
Linawren stares at the table. Vauthryâs awful smug fucking face stares back at her.
âWell,â Harald says, leaning back in his chair, âSuppose thatâs that, then.â
Hann sulkily begins to gather up the scattered cards. âThatâs that,â he says.
Linawren takes a stumbling step backwards, eyes casting about the Beehive, looking for-- help? Sympathy? Anything, really. But no one present-- not even the Honeybees-- deigns to even meet her eye.
âIâll need to dig out her papers to make it official,â Hann says, âThe Bureau of Registration will pitch a fit otherwise.â
âFair,â says Harald, magnanimous in victory, âRemember that time I forgot to let them know Iâd turfed out-- whatâs his name, that fellow who did those little engravings of seascapes-- and within a day half the guard was out looking for him in case he was lurking in the bowels of the Understory, a rebel or an assassin or whatever. I can pick her up tomorrow morning, if youâd like?â
âAll right,â Hann mumbles.
âOne last night with her, eh?â Harald says, âSince youâve been such a good sport about this.â
âWow,â says Hann, unimpressed, âThanks.â
***
Shai-Hannâs suite, perched atop the loftiest heights the Canopy has to offer, was decorated with the same gaudy abandon everything else in Eulmore was. Every table, every chair, every embroidered cushion and silk bedsheet, every porcelain plate and silver fork was a concrete manifestation of the blood, sweat, and tears of the bonded citizens upon whose backs Eulmore was built.
Hann was sitting at his desk (built by a bonded carpenter), dipping an ornate fountain pen (forged by a bonded silversmith) into a dainty-looking bottle of ink (made by a bonded glassblower) as he looked over the pile of forms and papers (filled out by a squadron of bonded clerks) which constituted the legal existence of Linawren, dancer, singer, and poet, bonded citizen of Eulmore.
He notices that Linawren is standing behind him, fidgeting apprehensively. He rises from his seat, turning to face her. The dazzling light pouring in from the window behind him throws his features into sharp relief-- the tufts of hair on his ears, his bright silver eyes, his classically handsome face. His tail swished this way and that in agitation.
âYou know I wish I didnât have to do this, my treasure,â he says, sadly.
âYou donât, though--â Linawren says. She hates how much she sounds as if sheâs pleading, but she hates the idea of being sent into Haraldâs household more. âCanât you just-- you know-- call off the bet? I donât think bets made at the Beehive at four in the morning whilst extraordinarily inebriated are legally enforceable--â
âIf word gets around I donât pay my debts, no gambling table this side of the Sea of Lightâll have me. So, as much as I really do value your company, as much as Iâve genuinely treasured our time together, I canât back out of a bet just because I really want to.â
âIf you value me so much,â Linawren says, trying her hardest to keep any anger from seeping into her voice, âwhy did you bet me in a hand of Hide the High Heart?â
Hann shrugs. âAh, my treasure⌠you canât gamble without gambling,â he says, as if this explains everything.
âHarald is clearly a boor,â Linawren says, changing tack, âDo you really think heâd appreciate me like you do? Youâre a man of culture, of refinement, an appreciator of literature and the arts. His interests are considerably more⌠base. I--â
Hann stiffens. âWatch your tone. Whatever my opinion of the man, heâs a gentleman of quality and a free citizen of good standing. Someone like you has no right to refer to him like that.â
Linawren takes a step towards her patron, hands balled into fists so tightly that the fingernails digging into her palms draw blood.
âRemember that your presence in this city is a privilege which has been graciously extended to you by the free citizenry,â says Hann, fangs bared, his tone venomous. Behind him, the pitiless sky continued to blaze with light. âIn return, your responsibility is to do whatever is required of you without question. Or would you like to go back to Gatetown?â
Linawren freezes in place. She feels her immediate surroundings slough away; Hannâs voice is nothing but a murmur of white noise. Sheâs somewhere else entirely. She feels the sharp terror of eaters swooping down from the sky, the grinding pain of constant hunger no meager ration of meol could banish. She sees her mother, hears her last words as she pressed a dagger into her daughterâs trembling hands. She feels the weight of decades with nothing to hope for but this bearing down on her. She--
The world snaps back into focus-- an opulent study, a bay window with a splendid prospect of Kholusiaâs white cliffs, a stack of papers authorizing a man to trade her away like a bird in a gilded cage, and the man about to do it. âIf Harald wants you to lick his boots, you should do it and feel grateful for the opportunity to earn your keep. If he asks you to lick something else, youââ
Linawren shoulder-checks him into the window. Sheâs stronger than she looks, with a dancerâs speed and a dancerâs grace.
âWhat the fuck are you doing?â he says, flailing as Linawren presses him against the glass, âLet go of me, you crazy bitchââ
The window shatters. Its fine glass and slim panes were built to look pretty, not stand up to sustained force; it had been a century since a storm last marred Kholusiaâs brilliant sky.
Hann, desperate now, grabs hold of Linawren. He kicks and screams. He sinks his teeth into Linawrenâs bared shoulder. She knees him in the groin and suddenly his hands have nowhere to gain purchase but empty air.
The highest levels of the Canopy to the choppy seas below is a long, long way to fall; a sharp cry fades into silence, punctuated by a quiet splash.
Linawren stares out the broken window, aghast. Her eyes are wide and sheâs shaking like a leaf. The pale blue speck that used to be Shai-Hann, free citizen of Eulmore is caught in the riptide and swept out to sea.
Linawren exhales sharply. She sinks onto the ground; she realizes too late that sheâs kneeling in the broken glass littering the parquet floor, but by this point the pain barely registers.
I just killed someone, she thinks.
I just killed my patron, she thinks.
She scrambles towards the window on all fours, leans over the edge, and throws up.
***
Darkness.
A dark room-- impossibly dark-- lit only by a paper lantern. A drahn woman sits-- no, kneels-- at a low desk. Sheâs writing something with a brush in an elegant, vertical script Linawren canât read. The woman turns towards the lamp and her features are illuminated by a soft, warm light. She has Linawrenâs face.
Brightness-- not the choking light of the skies Linawren knows, but a wide blue expanse punctuated by fluffy white clouds. The landscape below is endless rolling green steppes, continuing as far as the eye can see. Endless-- receding into the horizon, with no great wall of Nothing constricting it. She sees the drahn woman again, her red silk robe billowing in the wind, wielding a thin, curved blade. The expression on her face is impossibly confident. Across from her stands another drahn. She has dark skin, close-cropped white hair, black scales and horns, an improbably large greatsword in her hands.The women move towards one another, swords flashing in the sunlight. They look to be fighting a duel, but both thoroughly enjoying themselves. Eventually, the other woman knocks Linawrenâs twin to the ground, and gently-- tenderly, almost-- places her boot on her face. They both burst out laughing.
A steel cell in a steel fortress. The woman who looks like Linawren is sitting cross-legged in one corner. Her expression is blank, but her eyes defiant. The door flies open. The corpse of a soldier in black armor clatters onto the metal floor. The woman with the pale hair strides into the corridor, her sword slick with blood. The woman in the cell grins ear to ear.
An impossibly huge city. The stars above echoed by a constellation of lights below. Linawren-- or whoever she is-- is standing on a high, arched bridge in a garden. The duelâs victor approaches, a swaddled infant in her arms. They both look a little older, now.
Theyâre standing on the deck of a ship. Linawrenâs holding the child, this time. She now has a long, thin scar cutting through the scales on the side of her face and neck. Her companion is next to her, a hand on Linawrenâs shoulder. The familiar silhouette of the spires of Eulmore looms over the horizon, but theyâre somehow more austere-looking, more severe. The decks on the lower levels are bustling-- even from this distance, dozens of ships seem to be coming and going. Soldiers in red uniforms are crowding around the side of the ship, excited for their first glimpse of home in months--
The color red. The color blue. The color black. The color gold.
***
Linawren opens her eyes, groggy and disoriented. She looks up at Shai-Hannâs antique clock-- sheâs lost an hour or so, somehow. The shining sky framed by broken panes and shattered glass betrays no sign of time passing.
For the first time since she was ushered out of Gatetown and into Eulmore, she doesnât know what her life will look like a month from now.
Or a week from now.
A day, an hour.
But what she does know is that if she sticks around here, the question of what happens in the rest of her life will be moot.
Unsteadily, she gets to her feet and slips out the door.
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