Aug 21, 2025
I was sad about no xivwrite (congrats to Moen!) so I channeled that into making a pretty spreadsheet of past prompts to revisit for this year! feel free to make a copy for your own use~
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I was sad about no xivwrite (congrats to Moen!) so I channeled that into making a pretty spreadsheet of past prompts to revisit for this year! feel free to make a copy for your own use~
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Haliâs FFXIVWrite 2025 Prompt List
All prompts are former prompts from previous yearsâ events, and all credit goes to @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast! This is purely unofficial and I made this prompt list for myself to use, but please feel free to use these if youâd like! Text version of the prompts below cut.
My Cup of Tea Words: 1,431
Waking slowly is an indulgence that is new to Yâshtola. When she was a girl, her limbs had always itched for movement, her mind restless with study and discovery. When she grew older and ventured beyond the comforts of her homeland and Matoyaâs cave, the sky had fallen again and again and left her with no opportunity to try.
Only now, after so long, has the world quieted enough for that to change.
Yâshtola first wakes with her ears. They twitch against the silken fabric of her pillow and the song of the seabirds outside. Her fingers come next, brushing the crinkled cotton of her sheets, warmed with the heat of her body. Her nose follows to track what has shifted overnight: cooled wax from a candle sheâd used to temper the clasp of a necklace; a seabreeze that is different from the night before.Â
She wakes next with her chest, her stomach, her knees. Sheâd cracked a window open overnight and the air she breathes is fresh with the morning market. It invites her to breakfast, stomach grumbling in response, but Yâshtola has been a student of patience all her life. Her knees twinge when she shifts, a new but already familiar change of her body. She is growing older and autumn will soon give way to winter. She makes a note, idly, to ask Krile for another tin of poultice.
Prompt #22: Monster
(On Our Fates Alight (XVI-AU), EW, Garlamald)
----
"Nobody asked you to come." Riven's voice had the gathered soldiers immediately bring their weapons to bear. It was sharp, clear, authoritative, and condemning. The brunette didn't move from where she was standing, blue eyes locked onto Quintus' own.
"Nobody wanted you. You bastards invited yourselves, and created problems." The twins were staring at her, the imperials hands' were twitchingâa barked order from Jullus to stand down, but Riven didn't care. She needed to speak. Had to speak.
"I will not deny that some of my kin were dangerous. That they did more harm than good. But that goes for every spoken creature on this planet, with man themselves being the biggest fucking example! But you do not have the right to sit there and pass judgment on a situation that your country made worse!" Now Riven was getting louderâbut it was her own volume, unenhanced by Valefor.
"You are the ones that invaded. You are the ones who started shooting. You are the ones who kidnapped innocents and fed them to that farce you claim is 'imperial innovation'! You are the ones who have broken and destroyed cultures, backed Dominants who didn't want to fight against walls, giving them no choice! You are the ones who have wiped out entire families, down to babes in the womb!" Now the twins were grabbing at her clothing as Riven took one step forward, then another. The soldiers held their groundâbut just barely, with one's skin going sheet white as the brunette marched into his spaceâthe point of his sword resting just above the skin of her chest. Riven ignored him, coming to a stop.
"Do not sit there and snivel at me about my being a murderer, when you and your ilk are just as bloodstained as I!" She snarled. Dimly she could feel the twins tugging at her clothes frantically. Jullus looked as if he'd been slapped. Quintus looked like he was about to lunge at her. Good.
"Your country had a hand in forging this particular monster, my lord." The title sounded like a slur. "I own everything that I have done. Which includes defending my home, my friends, my loved ones, and innocents from an enemy invasion. Defending my person from physical harm. Killing a traitor. I can continue the list, Quintus van Cinna! And I would do it all over again."
FFXIVWrite 2025 Prompt 7: Wildflower (Free Day)
Two years ago⌠in Shirogane
On the sill stood a glass jar, and in it, a flower she did not know. Nabi paused, for she knew every stem and leaf she had gathered into their dwelling, and this one was new. It must be Anchorâs doing.
It was not the first time. She hoped it would not be the last. He never spoke of it, never asked if she noticed. The flowers simply arrived, sudden as birds alighting.
It was not a root to be steeped, nor a leaf for healing. When she gathered herbs, it was with a purpose: to cure, to flavor, to mend. But the blooms Anchor chose carried no use she could name. They were only themselves: wild things, brought into the house. She never thought to press them or grind them, never sought their secrets. She let them drink the light and open as they would. Their purpose, if they had one, was plain enough: to brighten the room, and to speakâwithout wordsâof the care with which he had chosen them.
Each morning she poured away the clouded water and gave the jar a new measure, turning it so the sun would strike the petals differently. It was a small tending, her own gift in return.
Anchor said nothing of it, nor did she ever see him glance toward the sill once the flower was set there. Yet Nabi placed the jar always by the window at the foot of the loft, where the sun began and ended. So that the bloom, mute and steadfast, would greet him at his rising, and bid him farewell when he went out to his labor.
Sometimes she wondered if he meant it as an offering for her, or if it was simply his way of marking a discovery: each flower a reminder of something new he had found appreciation in. But even then, she felt there was more to it. Anchor gave sparingly of himself in words, but perhaps these wild blooms were his truest speechâsimple, unadorned, needing no explanation.
And in their quiet way, Nabi understood their very nature. They need not be medicinal to lend healing; it gave a blaze of color against the darker hue of the wooden walls, a living thing that asked nothing but to be seen. She knew not all gifts are meant to mend. Some are meant simply to be shared, to remind one heart of another.
Still, when she looked at the flower, she sometimes felt the faintest ache of a questionâwhether Anchor placed it there for her, or if he himself had gained some appreciation of it, or for something neither of them could name. And perhaps that was the truest gift of all: not knowing, but tending to it anyway.
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FFXIVwrite2025-7 2. Silenced
NPCs: Urianger Augurelt
Original Characters: Y'mariah Rhul
Expansion: Dawntrail (Irrelevant)
Rating: T
Summary: Y'mariah confides in a sympathetic ear.
"Unofficial" FFXIVWrite Day 10
Yes, I know I skipped over Day 9. The prompt is messing with me a little. But! I believe I've managed to figure something out for it.
In the meantime -- the prompt for today was "Avail," and I think I came up with a rather fun scene in response!
Spoilers for the Dawntrail Alliance Raid, specifically the second one!
FFXIVwrite 2025 Day 5: Sacred
"Breath in. Breath out."
Beatin sat on his lifted heels, the balls of his bare feet resting on the dirt beneath him. His arms were wrapped around his shins, and his head rested on his thighs. He could smell the soil churned up by his toes, the slight green scent of broken grass steps. Light rippled across the ground as wind shifted the way the treetops blocked out the morning sunlight.
"We all start as seeds, small and tiny in the ground. Everything you need to get big and strong is right here, right in this tiny little space. We could just stay here forever. But we don't want to stay here, do we?"
Beatin lifted his head slightly to see the row of tiny balled-up children around him slowly shaking their head. Some were rocking listlessly side to side or had rolled backwards to sit on their rears, while others had such a devotion to doing it right that they had every muscle tensed into the Seed Pose. A few had their eyes closed, but most were looking at their fellows for guidance.
Beatin smiled. "Slowly, slowly, reach up towards the sunlight. Up up up. Your roots stay in the soil but we are moving towards the light."
As Beatin uncurled from his pose the row of children followed his gestures, stretching their tiny bodies upward with lifted hands. There were people who referred to Beatin as a 'Gridanian establishment', as if he were a plant native to the region who had rooted there and never drifted on the wind. Beatin found this a bit unfair. He'd not be the man he was if he hadn't had the chance to wander, like the legendary Lonely Giant that gathered a diversity of seeds upon its skin as it traveled across Eorzea.
Like all men, he was a medley, an ecosystem of collected notions from his wide and diverse life. The sunglasses that protected his sensitive eyes were from Kugane, his litany of innuendo-laden songs were from Limsa, his tools were forged by molten furnaces raging against the cold heart of Ishgard. His 'Acorn Orchard' was populated by seedlings who'd been forced from their homes by tragedy, some journeying halfway across the continent to find shelter in his orphanage.
And this particular tradition, this manner of devotion to the forest that brought the entire body to bear as you prayed, was an old Duskwight sacrament. The kind that would give the more delicate Hearers conniptions, because despite their alleged connection to the will of the Elementals they seemed to think a forest as old as the stones would be upset by a finite human wiggling too much during their devotionals.
(This might have been part of why Beatin liked to do it outside in public view. Someone had to give the Hearers a bit of enrichment.)
"We spread our branches out, and breath out through the tips. Keep your breath flowing. Everything is a cycle. Feel the sap moving up through your trunk, to your branches, to your leaves. Spread your little twigs out wide to take in the sunlight and the clean air."
It wasn't good for children to sit still, either. Too much talk and they'd find an interesting bug on the ground to occupy their attention instead.
Beatin was a carpenter, not a healer or chirurgeon, and definitely not a nursemaid. He couldn't tell you what the the wisdom of Sharleyan scholars recommended for child rearing. But he knew that children who focused on the rhythm of their breath as they settled into their poses seemed to find the haze of their pain lifted, and a peace settle into their hearts.
It certainly worked for Beatin.
"Now bow down like the willow, branches hanging. Swing back and forth with the wind--gentle swaying, lad, this isn't a hurricane. Now back up like the cedar, tall and strong. Feel your roots drawing in water, feeding your body, making you grow even taller."
The practice taught them balance too, and grace. There was no reason a sacrament couldn't also benefit the body, in Beatin's opinion.
The group crouched, legs bent like cypress knees, then drew up tall like the spruce. Beatin bent one long leg placed his right foot carefully against the inside of his thigh. He tried not to smile as he saw the children wobbling one-legged around him. One toppled to the side, a young girl in a linen dress, and Beatin saw her face twist with shame.
Beatin's smile never wavered. "It's all right to sway a bit," he said, deliberately not looking at her to let herself not feel called out. "If you bend to one direction, simply come back up again. No tree stays perfectly still, or grows perfectly straight. Take your time to find the pose that's right for you. I've yet to meet a tree that's in a hurry."
"What about dryads?" piped up one lad, who had his arms out to each side to keep his balance. "Saw one chasing folks in the woods two weeks ago. Seemed in a hurry then."
Beatin smiled. Deep breath in, deep breath out.
There was always one, wasn't there?