alphinaud — mare lamentorum

day fourteen attrition

Wed, 14 Sep 2022 20:57:57 +0000

#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #exlibris #au #graha #zenos #estinien #alphinaud #alisaie #yshtola #shitpost

warnings: none, unless you have issues with shitposting

general: the ex libris gang plays in-universe dnd

noun

the act of rubbing together, also the act of wearing or grinding down by friction

the act of weakening or exhausting by constant harassment, abuse, or attack

a reduction in numbers usually as a result of resignation, retirement, or death

The twins are fighting again.

Behind his game screen Urianger rests his face in his hands with a deep groan.

Estinien plays with his drake warden minifig, ignoring the combat in progress and any other figures, tokens, and set pieces placed on the dungeon map.

Y’shtola sighs heavily and moves to the whiteboard, wet erase marker at the ready.

G’raha amuses himself by tossing peanuts into the air and catching them in his mouth.

Zenos watches G’raha catch the snacks the way a starving hawk watches a three-legged mouse scuttle through underbrush.

“You said you were gonna play a cleric this time,” complains Alphinaud, for what feels like the fiftieth time.

Y’shtola makes a mark on the board under the heading ‘CLERIC’. It is indeed the fiftieth mark.

“I am a cleric though?” Alisaie is the picture of nonchalance, hooking her foot in the legs of G’raha’s chair to yank him out from under the falling legume. It plonks him square in the forehead and changes trajectory to cross the table, where Zenos catches it in his mouth, never breaking eye contact with G’raha.

“You don’t play cleric because you never prepare healing spells. You’re playing a rogue with a divine clone so you can steal twice as much stuff.”

“Yea but I could prepare healing spells and that’s what counts.”

Y’shtola makes mark number forty-two under the heading ‘HEALING SPELLS’.

Estinien looks up from his figurines. “Was that really the plan the whole time?”

“Yup,” replies Alisaie, without a trace of shame.

Zenos laughs. “Nice.”

Urianger makes use of the break to catch up on his notes. The encounter wasn’t going in the party’s favor at all. Brows drawn tightly together he opens his battered copy of The Dungeon Master’s Guide to Crystals & Crossroads and scans the pages for some new insight.

“Can we maybe just play? Alphinaud’s bard can heal…?” asks G’raha.

Alphinaud rounds on him with uncharacteristic venom, “I don’t see you preparing any healing spells either. You should be helping me. For example, lay on hands? Or is that still ‘emergencies only’?”

G’raha tosses a nut to Alisaie, who leaps from her chair and catches it like a performing seal. “Yep, sorry, emergencies only.”

“Wha—?!“

Y’shtola, looking amused, creates a new heading ‘LAY ON HANDS’ and adds one tally mark beneath.

The red-haired miqo’te points to Zenos, “Blood Hunters can’t do anything about poisons or disease.”

Zenos responds with the ‘I’m watching you, buddy’ motion, eyes wild and threatening. Dedication to the RP was Zenos’ strong suit, the reason he played the game. He never breaks character and this blood hunter has a feud with G’raha’s paladin.

Next, G’raha gestures at Estinien, “Same with Rangers.”

He simply nods, tucking a long fall of silver hair behind one pointed ear. Estinien’s ranger, like himself, was prone to brooding silence, preferring the company of his drake companion named Orn Khai. Apparently he’d named it from some legend or other, nobody could verify the tale but it probably existed. Estinien has a dragon fixation, to put it mildly, so if anyone knew all the tiniest bits of pointless dragon lore it would be him.

Finally, G’raha flicks an ear toward Y’shtola at the whiteboard, “Surely I don’t have to remind you that of all the PC’s a warlock is the absolute—“

She does her best evil laugh, the one her PC does before the whole party is about to have a bad time. One session in particular springs to mind, wherein the warlock sold her own soul to two different buyers one after another with no discernible consequences, then managed to raffle off the bard’s soul to the highest bidder without his knowledge or permission.

“Young Alphinaud, pray locate thine seat,” comes a sonorous voice from behind the screen, “lest thee forfeit thine action this round.”

Defeated, Alphinaud sinks into his chair, shoulders hunched. “I cast healing word at second-level on Zero viator Dementious then put bardic inspiration on Meteor for my bonus action,” he monotones.

“Sweet!” chirps G’raha, adding a charge of inspiration to his character sheet.

“Just so! Rolleth a duet of yon four-faced die, and forget not to make an addition of four to thine total.”

Zenos nods in appreciation as he waits for the roll’s outcome.

Y’shtola makes one final mark under the heading ‘CRUSHING DEFEAT,’ rounding out the tallies at an even one hundred, before reclaiming her seat with a smirk.

day five cutting corners

Tue, 06 Sep 2022 03:38:17 +0000

#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #shadowbringers #stelmaria #graha #alisaie #alphinaud #wolgraha

general: stel likes toppy raha ; in this house we love the twins ; patch 5.4 spoilers

warnings: none

idiom

do something in the easiest or least expensive way; also, act illegally.

“That appears to be our merchant.”

The odd quartet of two adult miqo'te and two elezen youths is strange enough, but the way they've attempted to hide themselves, together, in the shadow of a single column, is quite another thing entirely. They fit in a shared space the same way a square peg fits into a round hole, or a grumpy housecat goes into his carrier—which is to say they don't fit at all.

Further, all eight eyes are trained on what appears to be an everyday merchant—a blissfully unaware lalafell man some 20 yalms away—watching his every move with the sort of dour intensity far better suited to the inspection of one's shoe after treading on something foul.

“I'll talk to him,” offers Alphinaud. “I've done this sort of espionage before.”

He attempts to straighten but he's still kneeling, pinned to the ground under his sister’s weight.

Alisaie snorts at the very same moment G'raha manages to say, “Wait.”

Without even hearing the new plan Alisaie talks over her companion, “G'raha is right. You look far too genteel to be believable brother, and for that matter so do I. It'll have to be one of you two then.”

She glances at G'raha and Stelmaria, the purple haired woman leaning to rest her elbows on the Archon's shoulders, while he holds the squatting sit all miqo'te males seem to be comfortable with.

Satisfied that her opinion has been registered she removes her knee from the small of Alphinaud's back, allowing her twin to rise to his feet. Since her return from the First, Alisaie's bright blue eyes have not ceased twinkling for even a moment, so thrilled is she to be home and once more about the business of saving Eorzea.

Today is no different.

Alphinaud grimaces and rubs his back, though it's difficult to say which affront chagrins him more, his sister using him as a stepladder ('otherwise I can't see you ninny!') or everyone seemingly agreeing that he's “too genteel” to be allowed.

Rather than replying, Stelmaria heaves a great sigh and straightens. She pinches the apples of her cheeks then she rubs her lips together to plump them. That done, she unfastens the top button of her ruffled dress.

Then adjusts the neckline lower before unfastening another.

And another.

Alisaie reaches to shield her brother's eyes just as G'raha finishes dusting himself off and sees the Warrior.

“Aria!” he hisses, tugging off his scarf and throwing it slapdash around her shoulders.

Alisaie fails to smother a chuckle at hearing the rather intimate pet name.

For all their attempts to keep this relationship private, her friends are shockingly bad at subterfuge.

“Hmmm?” Stelmaria, supremely unconcerned, adjusts the scarf from where it has tangled in her hair and ears to its proper position. It fails to cover the rather substantial amount of décolletage on display.

All right. It’s not that shocking.

“They’ll know your face,” observes Alphinaud, batting his sister’s hands away and suppressing a grin.

“Yes! Yes, exact—!”

“Shhh.” Alisaie whips her head around. Thankfully, the lalafell hasn’t moved. “If we don’t get a move on we’ll be discovered—“

Stelmaria readjusts her neckline again. “We all know they won’t be looking at my face,” she says, with the same tone others might use to say ‘the sky is blue’ or perhaps ‘fire is hot.’

Alphinaud stares at the rolling hills of the La Noscean countryside, momentarily struck dumb.

Alisaie chokes on her own spit.

“The most direct method is fast and easy. Why make it more complicated than it needs to be?” asks Stelmaria, shaking her violet tresses so they frame her heart-shaped face in a most becoming fashion.

“No,” says G’raha, softly, “They’ll know you. You’re a long time Scion and you’ve been seen with the Admiral, besides. It’s too risky for you to go.”

The Warrior deliberates, chewing her ruby lip with one fang.

“Then what do you suggest?” Alphinaud raises a brow at his companion.

G’raha grins widely, a bit of the cocksure youth resurfacing, like the sun bursting from behind heavy cloud, “I’ll go. Anyone that could recognize me is in Gridania or Mor Dhona.”

“Very well,” relents Alisaie.

The miqo’te bounces off, ears and tail flagged high and shining a burnished copper in the sunlight.

“Got what you were aiming for, I take it?” Alisaie murmurs conspiratorially.

“Always,” replies Stelmaria, (not so) subtly rubbing the scarf against her cheek. “Taking charge suits him; he should do it far more often.”

An indulgent smile slides across the Warrior’s face and Alisaie finds herself reciprocating.

Happiness is infectious after all. They may be gods awful at being discreet but at least they seem to be enjoying themselves.