#ffxivwrite2021

Before, the Lover’s sky was bathed in blues. The cyan of risen morning, the indigo of moonlit shroud, the cerulean of imperial breath, the overcast of inexplicable tension. They believed her skin to be of their inclination — the spitting image of their nightly hue. She became the color itself.

Her home above them is now wrought in crimson.

Comets leaving stardust in their wake are surely the Warden’s tears. Even in mourning, she is burning justice. Her sister is everything that is nothing, in grey clouds that part for little more than chain lightning let alone this, in the little peaceful space between the Lesser Moon and the horizon. There is no question which is Dalamud, the ravenous beast — he takes center stage, rearing towards his prey with the rumble of thunder in his belly.

An orphaned clan of young miqo’te gaze upon the destruction of the sacred, the untouchable Twelveswood. Thin blankets and gathered planks — this is the lot of their feeble attempt to bolster the defense of the Shroud canopy, under which they huddle in immobilizing fear. For each shooting star that alights elsewhere, for each ilm that Dalamud falls towards anywhere but their godless sanctuary, a breath of relief is relinquished. 

The sky would rage on and on, Azeyma’s wrath juxtaposed to Menphina’s sorrow. Dalamud would continue his onslaught. At the peak of noon, the youngest among them awaken in the middle of their slumber and find all to be the same — except the prickle of aether disturbed. She climbs to the top of the canopy, closer and closer to the Mother Moon. 

Entire territories of the forest are nothing but smoulder.

The eldest has been awake all night. Anticipating their destruction. Perched on tip-toes, ready to run at any sign of impending doom. 

She tells him that it’s over. Even his optimism is cynical.

Don’t ring him.

Vahri'a rolls the linkpearl between his fingers for the umpteenth time that day. The sunset filtering through the tent flaps hits it for a moment — and then fades to nothing once more, hidden under the crook of his thumb. There is a resounding mantra in his head.

Don’t ring him.

One has to be strategic when it comes to machinations of the heart. Most would compare such sentiments to a dance, where two people move in efforts to compliment one another, flawlessly adjust to each other’s pace. 

No, Vahri'a considers his love an art of war. To read his opponent’s moves, to pre-empt and to adapt, to avoid being the first one to fall at all costs. He is a benevolent, reasonable general — the moment the other surrenders, he will do so in turn. Until then, love is a tug of war where the rope is constantly taut if not threatening to fray. 

As the man’s gift of a linkpearl was just that — a gift — it was also a bold move. Like moving his Queen across the board. What is a little gesture to most means the world in his friend’s furtive language. Contained in this linkpearl are the hands of an ever-ticking chronometer and the key to his house. 

Don’t ring him.

Metaphorically, of course. Gods, he shouldn’t get ahead of himself.

For this linkpearl is a delicate thing. The potential it holds is encased in a shell of glass. For every sentiment he can deliver in it — every little indication of his persistent care — he overreaches and opens his flank to attack with all of its vulnerabilities. His penchant for control, his obsessive reminders, his need for companionship as a crutch lest he keels over without it. His friend, with his sharp, piercing gaze, would see it from a malm away. If he left that weak spot for the taking, who’s saying what his opponent would do? 

Perhaps surrender in the best interest of everlasting peace between their two nations?

Don’t ring him.

Ignoring this linkpearl would be a grave mistake, too. For he wouldn’t want to seem uninterested, as if that line of aetherial communication between them is entangled with dozens of other paramours. To spurn the offer of something so personal would snuff out the light whatever the man was trying to tell him, if not take away the kindling entirely.

If there is anything behind that gesture, that is. It wouldn’t be the first time he followed his speculation into a world beyond. 

Vahri'a collapses backward into his bedroll, staring upwards at the warm-toned cloth of the tent canopy, billowing in the breeze. Though he attempts to push the focus of his gaze past the linkpearl, it always drags itself back, kicking and screaming.

Don’t ring him.

But Menphina above does he want to ring him. For all of his worldly worries, there is something larger than this mock battle that looms over the both of them. What if he’s in danger? Their star is a tumultuous one on the cusp of collapse, every sun a little bit dimmer. How much would he curse himself if he had the opportunity to save him from something terrible and didn’t — all because he was playing a game of cat and mouse with himself?

Much more than he repeats this incessant mantra. That’s for certain.

Don’t ring him.

Vahri'a sits up, taking one last look at the linkpearl. White is a rare hue to choose. Everyone knows it’ll be a dull, splotched brass if you manage to get enough dirt on it, if not a salmon pink should blood be your close colleague instead. But it suits someone like his friend — always willing to get his hands dirty, but hold himself as if his robes are spotless.

His friend whose expression is cast in porcelain and speaks little. Yet Vahri'a can see the warmth of a hearth glowing from within that typically opaque material, and he can sense words blossoming from each of his silent gestures. His friend who manages to stand tall and proud despite the burdens he puts on his shoulders. His friend who reminds him of himself, but a version he doesn’t hate. Rather, a version that feels familiar like home, that doesn’t feel framed in the red curtains of a stage but rather basks in an inexplicable familiarity. His friend that he wants to be himself around.

Don’t ring him.

Vahri'a slips the linkpearl into his pocket.

The mantra goes silent.

And as Vahri'a’s fingers deftly reach for the linkpearl, discarded for not a second, it realizes its mistake. The fences around Vahri'a are frigid and cold, encased in the oft-forgotten aspect of the Lover’s all-encompassing ice. But the house that’s built within it is merely made of snow. It’s a friable thing, melting to the touch of anything warm, unable to resist the beckoning licks of flame. Inevitably, the linkpearl feels snug returned to the corner of his ear. With it in, he can’t hear that mantra at all.

The blade rises in a graceful arc. It glints, the sunlight glancing off the black metal — only to swing wide of its target before it buries itself in the snow. 

A sarcastic voice resounds in her mind. “Almost.”

“I do not need your wit,” she bites back in her mind. She leaves the greatsword submerged in white. For now, she could stand to regain her energy.

“Mind pulling me out of this?” the voice retorts. “I could catch a cold.”

“Give me a moment.”

Pushing her raven hair out of her face, Signe watches her heaved breaths escape her lips in white clouds. Everything about this training is punishing — the Coerthan atmosphere on her desert-born skin, the weight of heavy armor on her lithe limbs, the sheer humiliation of trying to wield a veteran’s weapon as a complete greenhorn — and the training has visibly taken its toll. What escapes her is halfway between a shiver and a sigh, her body torn between working up heat and blowing it off.

“I know it sounded sarcastic,” says Brand, now approaching her volatile mind with a careful saunter forwards rather than a darting lunge. “But you’re getting closer with every rep.”

A twinge of irritation pangs in her chest. Before she can even respond, he preempts her. “What, you think I’m bullshitting you?”

“Could you stop reading my mind simply because you can? As I asked?”

“Alright, sweetheart. I’ll just act all surprised by what you say, if you want to play pantomime so badly.”

Signe only grunts and lets herself fall into silence. Her eyes rest on the sword sticking out of the snow pile nearby. For a moment, her lips purse. She takes a step forward, then the other. Ever so begrudgingly, she pulls Brand out of the fallen sleet, resting his tip in the dirt as she leans on his handle.

“Thank you kindly.”

She stares down his core — the spiked soul crystal, cast in obsidian, that embeds itself at the center of the greatsword’s hilt. She attempts to communicate her need in a wordless thousand yard stare. For all her disdain towards Brand’s ‘mind-reading’ he certainly isn’t capable of it.

“… What?”

A throttled sigh. One unlike all that proceed it, delivered on a bed of grit. “I do not feel as if I am progressing.”

“You are. You just need to shift your form, like I said—”

“It is easier instructed than understood. I am trying to make your corrections, but I cannot picture them in my mind. It is so difficult to visualize your words.”

“You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out with practice. Once you get the one, just do it again.”

“You are a horrible teacher.”

“D'aw. I love you too.”

Signe knows she looks an utter case, giving her sword such a withering look. That’s the benefit of training out in the middle of Coerthan nowhere like this — a distinct lack of onlookers. The downside is that she’s nowhere near a bonfire, either.

“Is there no way you can show me?”

“Riiight. Let me just shake out my arms.”

“That technique we used before, when I found you. It came to me naturally. If you could just show me for a moment?”

“Do you have the aether for it?”

“Yes.”

“No, not just 'yes’. I need you to really think about it, sweetheart. Focus yourself and evaluate whether you can, and for that matter, whether you should. You’re summoning me in darkness incarnate. If you don’t have the willpower right now, it’ll take over and corrode you. Even if it’s me.”

“… You would do that?”

“I’m not all me anymore, am I? I’m a ghost. Boo.”

A look of sheer sobreity.

“Tough crowd. Alright. Look into yourself, and then tell me.”

Signe shuts her eyes, inhaling deeply and steadying her shudder-shivers into something compliant and controllable. Weak digits grip Brand’s hilt — not in desperation or as a crutch, but rather to ground herself in parallel to his weight. Her posture straightens from its lopsided slouch, levelling her shoulders, widening her stance. Finally, the breath that leaves her is just that. No hitches, no wobbles, no cracks. Only breath that manifests in a puff of fog and fades into nothing.

“I am ready.”

“Attagirl. Now, get me out of here.”

Her hands overlap one another and channel her aether into the weapon. The soul crystal glows like kindled coal, orange corroding its stark black hue. At least, appearing to corrode it — no, it is plunged out of the crystal, manifesting in wispy darkness that is suddenly given form.

The towering silhouette of a Highlander man emerges from the crystal. For only a moment, her head swims just before she steels herself and steadies it. She feels the greatsword leave her hands, the avatar of darkness taking it into his own. His expression is indecipherable, or rather unseen, as he examines the implement.

“Watch carefully.”

“I will.”

Brand hefts the greatsword over his shoulder with ease, just to refamiliarize himself with the weight of it. Not moments after, it’s let down by his side as he strides towards the striking dummy, sizing it up as he would an opponent. Without further ado, he demonstrates what Signe struggled to picture — and so godsdamned effortlessly at that.

The blade rises in a graceful arc. His stance brings balance to the weapon’s acceleration, his wrists turned at just the right angle to guide his trajectory. He shifts his weight to see the swing through, finding purchase in the upper corner of the striking dummy and rebounding off its wooden mass, only for his wide stance to accommodate that ricochet by shifting backwards alongside it, gripping the hilt tightly.

Of course, this is her scholar’s analysis — her academic’s observation — as opposed to what she knows Brand is thinking. That is to say… nothing. This all comes so naturally to him. Though they may share her mind now, this is something that remains foreign to her and everything to him. Yet in this moment, she feels she understands.

Brand’s demonstration is done. He dissipates into nothing once more. The only indication of his trail are the wisps of ink that return to the soul crystal. 

This time, Signe’s voice is vulnerable. Appreciative, even. A rare sentiment for someone such as herself. 

“Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t cry.”

And… it’s gone. “I will not.”

She swings the blade downwards, readying it for her now informed imitation. As he did, she brings it atop her shoulder with a grunt, the sheer burden of the blade one she must constantly accustom herself to. Her approach towards their stationary adversary is slow but steady, putting one weighted foot in front of the other. A deep breath prefaces her swing.

She follows through with all of her body. No hesitation. The weapon serves as an extension of her will, not an animal in need of constant control. The brand is a limb — Brand, a part of her — and she wields the steel with acceptance rather than disdain. Her whole heart overflows into its core.

She does not swing wide this time. Just a mere few ilms from her target.

The static silhouettes of trees are disturbed by the hurried passing of cloaked figures. The first leads with purposeful steps, dutifully tying their pace to an unseen metronome. In contrast, the second is erratic and off-beat, skittering forward one second and skulking behind the next. The third of them — the last — keeps the flank close to their kin, the onus on those in front to set the tempo. The tag-alongs move with their shortbows knocked and at the ready, yet it appears the hunt is far from begun. 

Of course, the Black Shroud knows no shortage of hunters. No, it’s the bards of eld — bowmen that employed the power of song to invoke ancient power in their frontline peers — that have seen little light of day since war plagued. Yet here stands a young and unassuming Keeper of the Moon, lute in hand and shortbow strapped to his back, leading his kin in an art lost eras prior. Hunting is typically a quiet sport. Still, it is only befitting of the devout to prelude a feast with a prayer. 

A strummed instrumental shifts fluidly between major chords, setting a joyous harmonic rhythm on which the hymn will take stage. The young venator’s voice rings crystal clear amid the indecipherable ambience of the forest. The chorus that joins hold far less power in their tones, but they do their best to carry the tune all the same. After all, they have only ever served as harmonies to the melody that is their eldest brother.

I wash my hands of the blood I’ve sown A broken covenant renewed A sordid impulse subdued As I beat my heart and solemnly atone Bear witness to my transformation And to the Moon’s divine salvation

I wipe my eyes of the tears I’ve wept A wound stitched closed An intent transposed I relinquish the confession I’ve sorely kept In my throat, bereft Of the words I have left

I shed the skin of the life I once led— 

The first hunter ceases his strumming abruptly; the band’s marching dies as the song does. Despite his light singing voice that expertly navigated the flightful Ionian mode not moments ago, the timbre with which he addresses the problem is curt, strict and firmly rooted. 

“To. We spoke about this. You always end the first line on the wrong note. Remember the scale we practiced?”

“Sorry, I’a,” the second hunter mutters, eyes falling to the floor as he stumbles to a stop. 

“The song loses its power when we don’t perform it to perfection. When we have to do another round, we waste valuable nightshroud.”

“I know, I’a—”

“Do you know? Because this has happened every hunt without fail this sennight. I never have to give Sae or Ra notes. Why is it that your younger brothers are far more willing to practice—”

The third hunter pipes up. “I-I’a, To will practice more. L-Let’s just continue the song…”

“Li, I have been practicing,” the second insists. The weak resonance that plagued him during the song has since been shed, his words delivered on a bed of throaty grit, to which the interloping third shrinks back. “I end it on that note because the original doesn’t feel natural.”

“It doesn’t feel natural?” the first repeats in disbelief. His regard for his brother until now had been a mere half-turn — now, he revolves about properly and relinquishes the low-hanging hood from his head.

Vahri’a, the first son — he looks exhausted to the point of twice his brothers’ age. Disheveled white hair falls to the length of his collarbone, split ends and forming tangles evident at the tips. Dark circles frame sharp, violet eyes, hanging over long dry war paint that blends into his pale hair. Poking out from under the heaps of cloth that form his robes are thin wrists that cling to the bone.

His feline-like ears have swiveled backwards as he stares his brother dead on. If that weren’t already a sign of his aggression, his teeth grit to the point of bearing fangs, and his free hand balls into a fist.

“Might I remind you, Vahri’to, that Mother taught us this song,” he says gravely. “Did she not compose it to your liking?”

Vahri’to’s features — strikingly similar to Vahri’a’s own — contort into something discordantly bestial, pulling his facial muscles taut. 

“That is not what I fucking meant, I'a.”

“Language.”

“Please, I’a, To…” Initially, Vahri’li shrinks back from the conflict, but he knows better than to distance the flank he had kept so flush earlier. Instead, he rushes towards a close perpendicular between his elder brothers — everything short of interposing between them. “We can j-just do the song over again. I don’t mind.”

Alas, the third son’s imposition is far too little, far too late. Vahri’to, hunter that he is, has set his target and refuses to let him go. He bulldozes through Vahri’li’s attempts at placation, ignoring him in favor of pursuing his prey. 

“If you’re going to bring up Mother, then I ought to remind you that she never had half the stick up her arse that you do. She never corrected us when we sang the ‘wrong’ note. She loved it when we cared enough to improvise. We wrote new numbers that way. For the Goddess’s sake, they’re hunting songs, not scripture—”

“They literally are scripture,” Vahri’a corrects, regarding his second-in-command as if he’s setting up a checkmate. Where something primal has risen in Vahri’to, the cold first son views the impassioned argument before him as a mere equation to be solved. 

“Oh, and you think yourself a prophet? The be-all and end-all to what the Lover wants of us? You’re the patron fucking saint—”

“Language.”

“The patron fucking saint of holy nursery rhymes, are you?”

“I’m not claiming the Lover’s will at all. I’m doing what we were taught. I know these songs by heart, I know how they work, and I know that your improvisations, nay, your slip ups could cost Li a gash in his leg like it did the last time.” 

Vahri’li’s frail, lofty pitch can hardly cut through the monotonous percussion of Vahri’a’s matter-of-fact delivery and Vahri’to’s harsh, passionate strike tones. “I’m f-fine, it’s already healed—”

“You think you somehow know everything that Mother did. You don’t know epochs worth more than me just because you were born a cycle earlier. I was taught the same as you. I knew her just as you did. Actually, you want to know what I know that you clearly don’t?”

“What, pray tell?”

“Mother’s songs worked the magic that they did because they lifted spirits. We all had something to contribute, and those contributions were valuable. The bottom line of it was that singing with her was fun for everyone and that’s what emboldened us. With you, it’s a chore. All the singing does is waste our energy and scare away venison, all because you aren’t putting your heart into it and don’t let us do the same. Hells, do you even have a heart in there?”

“Mm, as if Mother just conjured all of those ancestral hymns from her heart of hearts. As if the sinews and organs of each instrumental weren’t kept together by her expert playing. As if she wasn’t using complex music theory to accommodate your childish improvising. I could tell that she was adjusting for you, while you were pampered, fancying yourself some sort of acapella genius.”

“Do you even hear yourself? These are family hunting songs, not the grand opera—”

“You speak of our situation like we can afford to spend nights holding hands and singing for recreation’s sake—”

“Enough!” 

The two free themselves from their deadlock. Vahri’li has finally found his volume. For a moment silence hangs over them, pierced only by the squawks of birds in flight from the noise. A beat after, Vahri’li verbally lunges forward, practically scrambling on all fours, desperately searching for words to which his brothers take so eloquently.

“If you two are done — done with this p-pointless argument — might I remind you that the others are waiting for us to bring back dinner? If we don’t have food for them, then… And Ya is sick. Ya is bedridden, and we’re wasting time here arguing over something like — like whether the first line should end in A or C?!”

A breath mark.

“Please, just — I know this situation is stressful, and everything feels like it’s weighing on you two, but just — stop arguing about what Mother wanted. Every single time it comes to what Mother wanted. It’s so pointless, it’s pointless because… It’s pointless because we’re never going to know.”

A caesura.

“Okay?”

Several measures worth of rest.

“Okay?” The power behind Vahri’li’s voice already seems to be waning.

Vahri’to passes a sidelong glance to the eldest of them. Though bitterness remains on the tip of his tongue, he’s since licked it off his lips and swallowed it. The scales may have just fallen off of his eyes, but for now, he can keep them in his pocket. 

“Okay.”

Vahri’a meets the second son’s stare with a distant glaze over his own. He may have every intent to address the problem, every impulse within him screaming at him to do so for efficiency’s sake, but for now he’ll take pause with grace.

“Okay.”

The leader of the band turns around once more, setting the pace and the path for the others to follow. They march to the beat of their own drums, yet they keep together all the same. 

“Let’s try this again,” says Vahri’a in even measure, taking his lute up once more.

Despite the cacophony of the argument prior, the dissonant melodies clashing in every metric, and the anti-climactic crescendo falling into a unanimous tacet al fine — despite the terrible song they’ve composed — they unite under their mother’s hymn as one voice in three tones. A holy trinity. 

Hypocrisy.

Siphoned, concentrated, bottled.

The only suitable label for the absolute scene before her. 

Sparkling red glints under the dim lounge light as wine spills into the pyramid of flutes below, partygoers cheering for the wasted puddles of it that seep into the floor tile. Scantily clad dancers command the center of the hall as married men jeer and reach in their direction, tossing coins at their feet in exchange for another garment discarded. Settees pristinely arranged by thinning house servants have been tossed into disarray, if not overturned altogether, as well-dressed drunkards devour each other. The shadows of the highborn dance without the defense of their prestigious faces — if people of the Brume were in their place, these very same nobles would condemn them to trial. All the while, a grand portrait of the Fury hangs above them, her gaze cast in ice like that of her land, as her once fiery ardor has since exhausted itself. Who would be able to maintain even a spark, witnessing all of the unadulterated sins of their children?

For a moment, one Imogen Lafontaine feels as if she’s waltzed into one of the Hells. No, Saint Reymanaud’s Cathedral is only a quarter of a malm away from here.

She is merely an accessory to the sins she finds herself counting — a portrait on the wall like that of Halone, serving no purpose other than to sit pretty. Not only do her actions so starkly juxtapose the impulses of her present highborn peers, but her chosen garments also stick out like a poor thumb. Translucent, shimmering blue cloth drapes from her limbs and over her face, transforming her silhouette. It provides only faux concealment; in her contours cast, one can make out the minimal breadth of her limbs, the slight point of her ears, and the hairline fracture that her lips press into. If only her fabrics provided any meaningful defense against the hedonistic assault on the senses before her. 

Her shadow does not dance as others do. It pushes through the crowd at a pace, a slow and steady beeline. It occasionally pipes up for the sole purpose of keeping the onslaught of acquaintances at bay. It speaks to her over her shoulder in the lowest voice it can muster.

“Your client has arrived.”

“Mhm.” Imogen’s eyes squint about the room, figures melting into figures with each passing moment. “Sorry, Pa. Who am I looking at?”

“Your eighth bell. Turn around to me first, do not just swivel—”

“I know, I know.” 

It’s a seamlessly executed pantomime — as her father Etraux taps her on the shoulder, she turns tittering with laughter, her gaze forcibly bright as it pans toward their true subject of interest.

He’s like her — unapologetically standing out amid the crowd, but for his excess in layers rather than her lack thereof. The tall elezen man stands in a dark trench coat that would’ve been better left at the door, under which is formal wear yet to be revealed. His dark hair falls over his eyes in spite of whatever application he’s subjected it to, only a small handful of strands loyally heeding to his strict attempt at parting them. Though still strongly structured, his cheeks and chin round out softer compared to the typically angular countenance befitting of an elezen noble, yet his stare digs into his surroundings far harder than his fellow partygoers with their drunken goggles on. He takes a reprieve from scanning the room to briefly examine his own calloused hand, then the chronometer hanging on the wall opposite his lean. 

“That is one Adrant de Zaciere, youngest son of Ciocent, of House Durendaire.”

“I’m sorry, Durendaire? That doesn’t feel wise—”

“They have participated in your mother’s services before. As long as we keep a line or two from Forlemort’s kin, we have been and will remain safe. Besides, their prestige is worth the risk.”

“Whatever you say.”

Amid the rancor of the room about them, silence seeps between them. As Imogen quirks a brow expectantly, Etraux merely provides an encouraging smile.

“That’s it?” she asks in an almost hissed whisper, her raised brow joining the other in a deep furrow. 

“How I wish there were more rumors surrounding him. No, he is one to keep his cards close to his chest, if not under his shirt entirely.”

“Then pray tell, how should I tailor his fortune to him?”

“The art of the cold read, dear. We do not have much time. You have two more appointments after this. Try to observe rather than pre-empt. The cards will guide you.”

Imogen grunts. She only then realizes that she’s since dropped the sugary sweet smile she was performing earlier, picking it up far too late as she nods her goodbye to her father. She wanders through the forest of fanciful figures, her path not quite linear but not quite meandering, as she approaches Adrant with the intent of — well, hiding her intent.

Imogen’s tone with her father had been cutting and brassy, and to some would be unbefitting of someone with as soft a face as hers. In this moment, she modulates her voice with ease; it comes out airy and light, with just enough force behind it to project it over the din. 

“Adrant?” 

He looks up without surprise, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes painting itself on his lips. 

“Mhm. Is it time for my appointment?”

“The bell has finally come, as it was foretold. If you would follow me, ser.”

The gracious incline of her head, her hand resting upon her chest as if the beat of her heart depends on it, and the vague, impressionable bullshit that leaves her lips — it all makes her want to barf. She performs it with ease regardless. She’s been trained in every means of socially prostrating herself. Adrant, on the other hand, refuses to indulge in such pleasantries beyond a vaguely encouraging smile not too dissimilar to her father’s earlier. Still, for all of his noncommittal gesturing, he nips at her heels like a loyal puppy dog as she navigates the two of them to their place of privacy. 

Slipping into a small door away from the main proceedings reveals a quaint, yet painstakingly prepared room cast in dim candlelight. Cloth identical to that which hangs from her tents over a small mahogany table covered in a navy tablecloth. At its center, a candle flickers in gentle licks, the aroma of coriander having staked its claim over the room and continuing to waft from the wax’s wick. Two chairs oppose each other in both position and style; parallelled on each side of the table, one a plush, velveted armchair that tips the balance of the cloth canopy to one side, and the other a wicker chair adorned in cushions of golden threads and tassels. Other than that the room is bare, with curtains drawn and furnishing unassuming. 

To sate her humiliated ego, Imogen takes to the throne without hesitation.

“Now, take a seat and make yourself comfortable.” She lifts her veil-like hood from her shoulders, revealing the deep seafoam of her eyes and the teardrop shape of her ears, poking out from behind blonde tresses. Adrant obliges, of course. His posture only sinks halfway into his lesser chair, excitement propping him up.

“Cosy in here, isn’t it? Though with your garb, I half expected a bed in place of this office setup.”

Those ocean irises churn into a tempest — kicking up a storm in his direction — despite the even measure of her words that follow. “We’re to delve for pleasures deeper than that of the flesh. Glimpse into the attunement of your soul.”

“I’m only joking,” Adrant says with a lopsided smile, raised palms facing towards her with fingers splayed. “I’ve actually been anticipating this reading for a while. No other reason to come to this estate, at least so far as I’ve heard.”

“And the fates have anxiously awaited your arrival, Master Adrant.”

Jewelry-adorned hands get to quick work as he finds himself settled. The deck cascades into itself like a wave crashing upon the shore, the satisfying sound of card against card tantalizing the senses. Adrant takes glimpses of the artwork shown only in bite-size portions of time, in all of their ornate, gilded glory. His eyes mirror that shine as they travel from her expert shuffling to her face, resting then into something curious and playful. Her observations having been surprisingly met halfway, she retreats into watching the arcana at work once more. Centering herself in the mesmerizing display of pattern. Clearing her mind of worry for all manner of factors. The vignette of the room about them lends to the idea that it is only her, her client, and the Deck of Sixty.

As thirty seconds pass, she reaches the half mark. In a practiced tone, she recites. “Tell me what drew you to this shadowed power, ser. Most shy from these darker arts, but you seem to find solace in them.”

Adrant hums before answering, “What most might consider the ‘dark arts’ isn’t really all that drowned in debauchery. Look at what’s going on outside.”

His choice in words piques her curiosity. “So you don’t at all consider it taboo?”

“What is ‘taboo’ really, anyway? It doesn’t matter to me. The Fury’ll be grateful for my service when the time comes.”

“How do you serve, ser?”

“Surely you’ll be able to read that in the cards, O lauded fortune teller?” 

She bites back the impulse to call him a prick. No wonder her father managed to gather little about him. Even in this vulnerable state where the two of them are putting implicit trust in each other to not gamble each others’ lives, he hesitates to even name his occupation. What does a son of House Durendaire have to worry about?

Imogen ceases her shuffling. She holds the deck over the candlelight, the warmth illuminating her skin but not daring to burn it, as she offers it to Adrant. “You’d be right about that. Will you do me the honors of attuning yourself to the arcane?”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

For a brief moment, his fingers brush hers as he takes the cards into his hands. They’re a calloused sort, perhaps more befitting of a laborer or a soldier. Though he doesn’t sport an athletic physique remotely, his build being slender and light. Perhaps this is an artisan’s lot, putting one’s hands to exercise and none of the rest. He too shuffles the cards with the ease of a gambling addict. 

“Answer with your whole heart,” she guides, hands making meaningless, floaty gestures over the candle between them. “What do you wish to have answered?”

Finally, he retorts not in a quip but with pause. There is some hesitation in him to find his voice — which admittedly she internally smirks at, having finally pinned this slippery ser down — but he answers so eloquently that any petty pride she may have earned snaps out of existence. 

“Do you ever feel pressure to be wed before you feel the time is right? My question is: What does love have in store for me this coming cycle?”

Imogen can’t help but smirk ever so slightly as her ministrations over the light continue. She’s told fortunes for this question a countless number of times. No highborn is beyond the temptation of some higher power telling them who they should or shouldn’t fornicate with. There’s nothing more romantic than something grand making important life decisions for you, no?

“A question so close to the heart… Very few have the courage to heed to their lunar sway in such a way.” A bold-faced lie offset by her gently shut eyes that now cannot betray her amusement. “We’ll consult the Trinity for your desires, ser. Have you allowed the deck to sup from the well of your aether?”

“I believe so.”

“Pray return it to me.”

Over the fire, the Deck of Sixty is exchanged once again. She cuts it with deliberacy — again, a meaningless gesture for the purpose of mysticism — and sets it neatly upon her side of the table. The first card is placed, then the second a space away from it, and at their center and an ilm lowered, is the final draw. 

“Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Very well.”

The first card is flipped on its side, revealing the spear of Halone pointing in Adrant’s direction, descending upon him like a dragoon hurtling to their prey from the skies. Her face contorts into a practiced frown, feigning concern for the man as she tents her hands to accommodate the perch of her chin.

“Pertaining to your past: The Spear, reversed. You have entrusted your previous lovers to defend you only for them to have turned against you. Where there was once compassion and togetherness, there is now hostility. Your heart has been shattered before, ser?”

Adrant does not answer. All he offers is the slow nod of the head. She has him right where she wants him, silent in his stupor, drawn into the reading. After all, Sharlayan astrology and Triple Triad use the same implements, do they not?

“All is not lost in the frozen past. Halone is a resilient goddess; she persists despite the harsh climate in which her land has been cast. Her presence in this imagery represents your tenacity to pull yourself from that past of turmoil. I can safely say we move onto your present from here.”

Her fingers deftly flip the rightmost card, which — to her surprise — reveals another major arcana underneath, again in its inverted position. Oschon wandering from the mountain that remains on the south side of the card’s artwork.

“The Arrow, reversed,” she continues, canting her head to one side in more genuine consideration this time. Adrant looks to her in now visible concern, anxiously kneading his hands upon the table in wait for her assessment. As she thinks, she still performs. A series of hums bubble from her chest, falling into the line of a song she conjures from the deep recesses of her mind. Finally, the Spinner grants her an interpretation.

“You feel controlled. You know that your position as the youngest holds expectations over you and your contributions to the High House. You are expected to marry for prowess; you are expected to bear many children. You find yourself straying from what your parents would expect from you, from your designated path of what is conventional and righteous and normal, in pursuit of what is true to yourself. But to react obstinately to what is deigned upon you isn’t being true to yourself either. These powers call for you to be focused, to listen to your inner voice, and to take control of your life once more. Lest control drive you away from prosperity.”

“What prosperity?”

“Stay with me, Master Adrant. The final card tells your future.”

Of course for all of her years, Imogen is not above playing with her food. She lingers on the final card, relishing in the beads of sweat forming upon Adrant’s forehead, the anxious picking at his calloused fingers that has risen from mere hand wringing, and how far he leans into the reading to the point of likely hovering from the seat of his chair. For all of his sass, he’s now putty in her hands. At the sight of a mere sixty pieces of paper. Desperate for someone to tell him what to do; he’s too godsdamned pathetic to figure it out for himself. 

Finally — finally — she relinquishes the card of the future. 

Azeyma stands over her bed of flame, striding on hot coals as if they were cool stone. Scales in one hand tipping in one favor, her fan in the other concealing her face. Tantalizing mystery surrounds the Warden, draped in her translucent cloth and holding back her steely gaze, but her dancer’s garb begets the fire of a warrior within.

“The Balance, divine.” 

Imogen knows her instinctual answer to this one. Unfortunately, her true interpretation never matters in these readings. The art of astrological attunement here is not truly for advice that will set spoiled highborn on a righteous path, correct their sorry behavior, make them see the errors of their ways. No, these readings are engineered to tell them exactly what they would like to hear. To ensure that their preconceived notions are backed not just by their subconscious lust, but simultaneously by unnamed powers that be. She knows what she would like to tell Adrant of his future — of Azeyma, in all of her wrathful justice that favors no hierarchy — but that hardly aligns with his lofty flights of romantic fancy.

All the while, Adrant’s eyes are that of dinner plates resting upon the arcana.

“There is a powerful woman in your future. One who walks upon the fire most dare not enter. She holds the key to bringing your life into balance once more, and she is one whom you can trust unlike the others before. For she is just as fair as she is passionate. She is unlike the rest, inquisitive and bold as you are. And she holds in her the Balance — that which will swing your life into good fortune and assured victory. You need only be bold and dare look for her where others will not.”

Only then does Imogen realize his gaze does not bore into the deck, but rather herself.

Instinctually, she leans back.

“Hm?” she asks curiously, trying to play off her initial shock.

“It’s an interesting pull, isn’t it?”

“It… It bodes well for your future, ser.”

It seems all of Adrant’s anxiousness has since washed away. What replaces it is airy, carefree laughter, gentle like the candlelight about them. But such candlelight casts his once soft features in harsh shadows, highlighting sharp points in a horrific manner. For a moment, she wonders if she looks upon a demon rather than fellow spoken, her eyes rendered beady, teal pricks swimming in wide whites. Adrant settles away from the candlelight, shrouded in darkness, setting his sights upon her with focused intent.

“You didn’t answer my question from earlier.”

“O… Oh. I’m terribly sorry. What question was it again…?”

“Have you an eternal bond arranged for you? Or perhaps, do you fear them in your future?” 

Even if she weren’t being honest — which she is — she would answer the same way. “I’m afraid not.”

“I can’t imagine so. Most wouldn’t deign to even consider you in such a way. After all…” Adrant points to the tips of his own ears, particularly where they point. Then he makes an open-handed gesture towards Imogen’s own. “Your half-blooded heritage is far too taboo for most of our people to stomach.”

Her face contorts in disbelief. Did he truly say that? She had heard worse, far worse, but in this place where she was in control — how could he feel safe enough to challenge her? She finds heat rising from where it’d been snuffed in her throat, coursing within her in a burning rage and jumping from the tip of her tongue. 

“I’m fucking fine with my heritage no matter what anyone else thinks, thank you very much.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you, Imogen.”

She’s taken aback by how boldly he wields her name. “You know…?”

“Of course I know. Everyone knows. But me especially. You’re something else.”

She shakes her head profusely, eyes still red hot with the indignation that he’d plunged her into with a mere sentence. “Whatever. You’re envious because my father respects me too much to push me to that. So we have direction for our house’s future and don’t need to resort to cheap ceremonies. What of it?” 

“I promise I didn’t mean to insult you. What others see doesn’t matter to me. I’m here after all, aren’t I? Supporting a lesser house, partaking in the ‘taboo’ art of fortune telling, letting a half-elezen talk down to me. Because I don’t believe in all of that shit. I see your heritage as something special.” 

Imogen purses her lips, hesitant to take his words at full value. “What are you on about? It’s not like I chose to be this way either. I’m just me—” 

“The likelihood of two spoken races coming together and bearing fruit… It’s almost inconceivable. You’re a miracle, Imogen. A beautiful miracle. Fate deigned for you to exist, and now you serve Fate as Her progeny. I see you for what you really are. A blessing. All those pretentious arseholes who tell you otherwise are blind to the light that’s present in you.”

She finds herself wrestling with feelings, fighting like territorial cats within her psyche. The intent of his words seem well, coupled with a warm smile and strong compliments. It’s not as if anyone has said that of her before — not even her father, who had chosen to ignore her heritage until its exoticism served their chosen trade well. Praise towards her has always been backhanded. Good on her for embracing nobility despite her hereditary savagery, people would say. This is nothing like that.

Yet, this — this is just as uncomfortable. She finds herself tensing in her seat, rearing away from Adrant as he obsessively gushes freeform sonnets in her favor. Worships her for something she hadn’t even earned. If she had clawed her way from her mother’s womb, emerged panting for air with trophy in hand, perhaps she’d relish in his praise of her ‘accomplishments’. But it was hardly an accomplishment. She wasn’t, and then she was, and then she was made to live hellishly for all that she isn’t. She isn’t a demon or a monster or a mistake, or anything that this bigoted society made her out to be. 

This stranger praises her for something that she isn’t. An angel, a gift from the gods, a godsdamned miracle — screw miracles. Those who pin their hopes and dreams on miracles are sorry fucking fools.

Still, Adrant persists. “They’ll consider you aberrant. But I know better—”

“That’ll be all, Master Adrant.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The reading is finished. May the Twelve be with you. I have another appointment, so if you please—”

“If you’ll give me another minute.”

“The reading is finished, ser.”

In disbelief, the corner of his mouth twitches upward. Then, it bears into a grin, halfway amused and halfway insulted. He pushes his disheveled hair from his eyes, spiking upwards before it’ll inevitably collapse into limp strands once again, before he rises from his chair and makes for the door. 

“Very well, Lady Lafontaine. But I will get through to you someday. Someday soon, you’ll see all that I see.” 

She doesn’t dare dignify that with a response. The door opens on the dusky room, harsh beams filtering in from the hall and drowning out the mere flickering candlelight, noise flooding in from the party where its absence was once relished. It shuts moments after, leaving Imogen in the dark. 

Aberrant, he said. She hadn’t heard that one before. 

She’s familiar with the vocabulary. It’s come up many times in aetherological study. It’s an old friend of a word. Just not in this context.

This context that presses down upon her shoulders where her clothes merely ghost them. The weight of gravity that makes her push into her grand, velvet throne and forces her guts to her legs, the unmistakable feeling of sinking.

Everything is being wrought from her and she can do nothing to stop it.

“Fuck.”

Amid everything, it snatches a tear from her eye and onto her cheek.

“Fuck that.”

It wrenches a sob from her throat, the stop gates of her practiced pleasantries helpless against a pure torrent of emotion.

“F-Fuck that.”

Her voice drowns in the onslaught of her crying. It’s ugly and terrible and unrelenting. The worst of it is not the state she’s in, the overcoming feeling of sorrow. It’s the harbinger of her doubts and fears, a man she hadn’t even known, a man who in his eyes had every intent of lifting her spirits. She, a woman who’d mustered an epoch’s strength — torn down by a useless fucking idiot who had no idea what he’d let loose from his lips.

The merriment rages on outside of her door, nobles partaking in the present without a care in the world for what becomes of it. A scandal, an illness, a bastard. In this vignette cast by candlelight, darkness consuming the walls surrounding her, she is utterly and terribly alone. 

In solitude.

Siphoned, concentrated, bottled.

Better late than never. 2021 was the first year I participated in FFXIV Write. A lot of these stories are non-canonical, as I use FFXIV Write events as a chance to feel things out and try to see whether or not some early thoughts of mine will gel and/or stick. They still have a special place in my heart though and I am rather fond of all of them.

Also this is where it all began.

Foster: An early attempt to make an entry point for Nyx. Didn't stick, but is sort~of moving in the right direction.

Aberrant: More Nyx hours. I feel better about this one, and will probably keep it as part of their canon. Maybe in November? But I digress.

Scale: A Dragonsong war haiku

Baleful: A poem about primals

An extra credit day (unused)

Avatar: One of the first things I ever wrote for Zoissette; her speech patterns would change as I refined her, her behaviour and personality only shifted slightly. Also, arguably the beginning of the end for me.

Speculate: And Klynt's (who belongs to @saesama) first appearance. This is a dumb conversation (affectionate).

Adroit: A story in which we take a brief look into a day in the life of the true hero of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.

Friable: Urianger knows how fragile all possible futures are.

Heady: Nyx in their element, before they have to fulfill their purpose.

Preaching to the choir: Zoissette deals with the inquisition.

An extra credit day (unused)

Oneirophrenia: An Echo awakening; written for Nyx, but I eventually decided it was non-canonical for them. I still really like what I did here, and may find a way to repurpose it one of these days.

Commend: A short bit between Tataru and Zoissette, cleaning up after a banquet.

Thunderous: Nyx defends their scientists. I swear I keep coming back to this in my unfinished works, refining it, wanting to leave it alone but I can't. This is the first original form though. How it'll eventually wind up, I do not yet know.

Crane: A short bit between Zoissette and Klynt. Despite its shortness, I feel it really helps establish the tenor of their relationship.

Destruct: The arc of the life of Fordola rem Lupis.

Devil's Advocate: I will finish this one day. Zoissette sure is having a day in Ishgard.

An extra credit day (unused)

Petrichor: The first day of the rest of Nyx's life. This one I know I intend to rewrite.

Feckless: Zoissette flirts with danger. I did not know it at the time, but this is where the keel was laid.

Fluster: I feel like we settled on this being non-canon? But this is a funny story we made up to justify Klynt and Zoissette having an in-game wedding (@saesama wanted the two-seater chocobo)

Soul: A glance at Zoissette's particular Echo quirk. A look into all her possible pasts.

Illustrious: Zoissette absolutely hates being the center of attention, and Klynt is not at all helpful about that.

Silver Lining: More possible Nyx backstory, but tangled and mixed up. The scientist names are wrong here.

An extra credit day (unused)

Benthos: Nyx explored the underwater areas around Doma, and delights in what they find. Oh, and maybe delayed an attempted rebellion. This is also where they first pick up the moniker that would eventually become their adopted last name.

Bow: Stephanivien enlists Zoissette to the machinest cause. Unfortunately, I myself never quite took to the job.

Debonair: The Thancred Five Girlfriend Trainwreck Pileup

Abstracted: What is Zoissette, anyroad?

“Aeryn faced Nidhogg himself, and fights gods, eldritch sorcerers, rampaging alien machines, and Twelve only knows what else when not thrashing Imperials. Why is this dragon cause to fear?”

“Because she’ll know Aeryn the moment she catches her scent. And I’m not sure what the effects of the bond between them will be.”

“What bond? What are you talking about?”

The story of the dragon Avengret and her ties to Warrior of Light Aeryn Striker's family are now (finally!) on Ao3, starting with:

Chapter 1 Baleful Tidings

All of the original FFXIV Write prompts have been revised, re-ordered, lines and scenes shuffled around, and a few new chapters have even been added. I'll keep the original prompts as-is. This took far longer than I meant to, given life, other writing projects, and Endwalker.

My 2021 FFXIV Master List