#;writings

Would it matter?

The thought came to his mind amongst the whirling gears and pounding pistons of machina. It is enough to give him pause. The machinist crossing his arms as he stopped to ponder it.

They were causing a lot of noise lately...

Those two.

How long had it been since they were together? They used to be a team. He had come to consider them his friends. That had gone to hell in the end though. Now the world plunged itself ever closer to war. A war he didn't care to have any part in.

Let New Yevon and The Youth League tear themselves apart.

The Al Bhed had seen enough of the horrors that came with war. A thousand years of persecution and hate. All because of Yevon and it's teachings. After the fall of old Yevon, his people had been scattered to the wind, with no place to call home. Cid was content to do nothing. To try and turn the ruins of Zanarkand into an amusement park.

Even Gippal thought that a rather insensitive and foolish idea.

Too many people had given their lives in that nightmarish place for it to be turned into some kind of carnival attraction.

It wasn't his place though.

His place was here now. The Machine Faction. He was just as guilty of the blasphemy as Cid. They moved into an old temple and started peddling machina to the masses. He had good intentions really. At least that's what he believed. He had given a handful of Al Bhed a purpose again.

He really was trying to make Spira a better place.

"Puo ur puo."

The words leave his lips softly, as he uncrossed his arms and returned his attention to his work.

In truth, he missed them.

His friends.

It had been a long time since Hierei had a proper nightmare. He believed that his Lord shielded him from such, that his turn to goodness and all his hard work in becoming a better person had cleansed him of such an opportunity.

Yet repeatedly he was pulled by unknown forces into the depths.

It looked like the Dread Expanse. He remembered it well, from his experience with Dareli and of what he'd read in his scriptures. Yet it didn't feel the same. It was against him. Oppressive.

It wanted him dead. Fear guided his heart. The depths did not want him to survive. The Abyss would claim him, and he would be no more.

Struggle as though he might, he kept swallowing seawater. Salty. Briny. Filling his stomach yet not his lungs as he used every limb of his to stay above the water until they burned. Until they ached.

It felt like an eternity, staring up into a dusky sky, across an endless sea of oblivion, feeling the weight of Fear Itself bind his legs.

Was this the manifestation of his Despair? Knowing he couldn't escape it in the end? Was it his Fear of destruction? His Hubris in trying so desperately to stay alive, above all odds?

The waters and exhaustion eventually claimed him, not giving him an answer. He counted his thoughts as he took his final breaths...

And he woke up, choking out shadowed water from his lungs. He turned over in his bed, leaning over the edge as he emptied out what felt like a half gallon of sea water and the rest of what he'd eaten the night prior, hands clammy as he shuddered.

He stared for a while before slowly getting up to clean up the mess, head spinning enough to make him nearly tumble over as he stepped out of bed. He reached to the small if his back, fingers running over smooth skin, then his thigh, his arm, his upper back...

He felt so naked without the cursemarks that kept him safe, from such horrid visions. What did any of this mean? Was this punishment or premonition?

Azys Lla.

This was it, the place that he had dreamt of ever since the Archbishop's departure. It far exceeded even his wildest of visions, and yet it was not with awe that he gazed upon the technological marvel of a city -- but something of despair. Sorrow, perhaps, and a bit of anger laced with confusion.

Unsurprisingly, the Lord Commander's brow was furrowed, and a frown tugged at the corners of bowed lips. What exactly had transpired, Aymeric did not know -- at least not first-hand. The recounted tales had of course been detailed... So why had he come here? What was he expecting to find? Answers? Closure? The bodies of those who had been laid low in this hellscape? Of all possibilities, the last seemed somehow the most ridiculous of all.

His father was gone. A man he had barely known beyond their political stations; a man whom had never claimed him as his own until the very end, and was far less of a father to him than the late Viscount Borel; a tyrant and a coward both, whose convictions had cost the lives of good people -- such as Lord Haurchefant and Lady Ysayle.

Surely he couldn't really be mourning the loss of Archbishop Thordan VII, after all that he had done and caused?

Nay, he told himself. It was not mourning him, but mourning all of the questions that would never be answered, for their answers had gone with him to the grave. Like who had his birth mother been? And why was he born? How could such a self-proclaimed pious man sire a child despite his vow of celibacy?

Iron lord Sabine, Once she was an unstable Guardian with a hatred that was sure to consume her. Upon joining Saladin in his crusade against SIVA she was able to stabilize herself and come the calm and focused Iron lord she is today. With her fast reflexes and accurate aim with a scope she has proven to be the fastest out of them and the deadliest. Her work with a blade is unmatched when forced into a corner, she will survive no matter what.

Iron lady Vivenne continues to amaze with her wit and intelligence. Her tactics on the battlefield has won a great many of battles for the Vanguard against the darkness and its minions. Responsible for the fall of Crota’s generals and the end of Skolas, she has proven that she is a foe worth noting. Her impeccable understanding of the three powers that give Guardian’s their abilities rivals no other. As an Iron lord she has become a deadly foe to the splicers and will soon prove to be their end.

Ask for him...? What was going on? His thoughts were scattered, unfocused. From one question to the next, vague shadows against overflowing light. In his chest, there was a sharp pain centered within, a dull ache throughout his body elsewhere. The voices speaking around him swam in and out; at times painfully loud, at others muffled and unintelligible, as though his ears were filled with water.

“No luck... as far-- ...e hasn’t got a wife or... --nothin’. If he does... --ust not know...--been up to.”

Huh...

...Where was he? What was this place?

It was warm, at least. Soft, too.

He tried to move but his hands, his fingers... they felt so far away. His legs felt even farther, though he managed to twitch his toes. His tail was somewhere too, he could feel it. His entire body felt all at once present and yet not; it was as though he were underwater. Sleeping. Dreaming.

“...ell, keep your eyes and ears open...--will turn up, hopefully.”

“--certainly hope so! ...--nasty bugger that got him.”

A snort. “... --utting it lightly. Lucky... --still be alive, he is...”

Lucky... Funny, that...

He’d always had fortune on his side. Something had happened to him, then... But what? 

Huh... Maybe Baltusar knew. Or Leonora. Or whoever these people were... definitely these people. They were talking about him, weren’t they?

He supposed he could figure it out, after a nap. He was so tired.

My dearest Roslyn,

I hope that this day finds you well. I write to you now for I have no one else to write to that would read my words and understand them as you would.

There comes a time in every man's life where one must check his conscience, to review the sins of his past and see how he would like to set himself up for the future. Turning points are beautiful, even if they bring one through the valley of death.

In this same vein, I believe I will get for myself a cat! I was enamoured the other day in seeing such cute mustelids, desiring an animal familiar for myself. However, in my current housing situation, it would be difficult to care for much else other than a small creature. I am drawn to cats, though I wonder what you think would fit me? So long as it can fit upon my shoulder, I believe it would do me well.

While I do think of how to care for a new animal, I am putting thought towards a place I can call my own, for the mantid, while they enjoy the things I bring them and the services I offer, are not kind to my presence, and I am not fond of their religiosity. The idea has come to me that I may become a smith's assistant, so I may learn a proud craft and make gold of my own!

I spoke with my brother the other day, and we did not come to a proper accord. It seems he wants little to do with me, but seems to value me highly enough to take on a project of his which is near and dear to his heart, and one I am wary yet Proud to take on. I wish I could have spoke with him more, though I do not see him as receptive to the idea. I did want to update you and say that I did indeed try to reach out, for he is family, and I love him dearly.

I did appreciate your coming over and spending time with me, of seeing me through my own mire of thoughts, so I sought to make you something worthy of your own countenance. While I was not able to make it of my own two hands as I had hoped to do, I did have a lovely Klaxxi smith assist in bringing my vision to life.

Your Stagehand,

Upton O. Goode

Enclosed was a small pouch made of green-tinged insectoid wings, and within the small pouch was a pendant of bronze and amber, life energy strong within.

Such kharis as he remembers his brother putting it.

Even if he wasn't a person, even if he wasn't fully separate from Hierei, he could at least... pretend. Pretend he was someone else. Pretend he was meant to be, meant to live, meant to do good and help others and prosper.

With Rosey's eye on some amber, he had an idea. She hadn't wanted to keep any for herself, and Upton wasn't an artist exactly, but he knew what he wanted to do, and Pride back in his wing, he would do it.

Flying around the immense kypari, Upton looked for the most perfect piece of amber. Aged, old, shaped nicely... It was hard, most of the tree picked clean by mantid harvesters trying to find food or materials for weaponry and tools. However, after some time inspecting the layered, mossy patches of bark unmarred by sha... he found what he was looking for.

The smallest glint in his bright silver eyes. Such a small droplet of amber, shaped as a tear, hardened as it seeped from such a small crack in the bark. Upton plucked it, wiggling his ears with delight before swooping down, finding a nice place in a nearby mire.

The bleeding heart plants in the Dread Wastes were known for their beauty by the few authors who got to see them. Huge, bright, and lovely, Upton decided that even if he didn't include the flower, the stems would make for something sentimental to hold the amber piece in place.

Yet as he reached up to cut one of the long stems carrying the blooms, as soon as his hand came to contact with the sap, he blistered. A deep purplish rash immediately came across his fingers, his hand only saved by wearing gloves - however fingerless.

He quickly stopped, dropping his knife to the ground, looking over his fingers and not quite understanding the damage that had been done. Was it an allergic reaction? Could he even be allergic to things? He'd never been allergic to things before, not really, and any damage he took was always quickly mitigated... Why did it hurt so much?

Slowly, he brought sha to his fingertips. So easily, so naturally it came, and with it, soothing cooling. A numbness. The sha didn't hurt him- it never had. And it eased the pain and the swelling and the itching immediately.