endwalker &mdash; mare lamentorum https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/tag:endwalker jiggery f*ckery </br> abandon all hope, ye who enter here Mon, 25 May 2026 19:09:17 +0000 https://i.snap.as/dru4XEMk.jfif endwalker &mdash; mare lamentorum https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/tag:endwalker day twenty-one solution https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-twenty-one-solution?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #endwalker #stelmaria #venat #fluff warnings: death (a lot) ; illness ; grief general: i hurt myself in my confusion noun a means of solving a problem or dealing with a difficult situation a liquid mixture in which the minor component (the solute) is uniformly distributed within the major component (the solvent) !--more-- On the day she was born, Hydaelyn wept. From her solitude deep within the aetherial sea she watched. Looked upon the squalling kit encircled by the mother's ghost-pale arms, her little red face squinched against the indignity of the world outside. Heard the father's earnest prayer of thanks to Menphina, coupled with a dedication that all three shall devote themselves to love in Her shining name. In that moment Hydaelyn bequeathed the traveler's charm to this newest shard of Azem. A gift she knew the child would one day need. One day was not now, however, and in watching the doting parents cuddle and kiss the tiny kit she was overcome by joy and hope. A sorrow most bittersweet, a sugar confection laced with wormwood. Hydaelyn sobbed at the scene and the Mothercrystal wept along with her. This most precious daughter grew under the care and love of her blood parents. They named her Stelmaria, after the sea of stars through which Menphina sails upon her silvered boat each night. Like her mother, she was blessed with a sweet manner, alabaster skin, and delicate features, but the child's shining amaranthine locks, formidable will, and clever subtlety were her father's. They were happy. Until the sickness came with fevers high enough to cause one endless hallucinations, headaches, vomiting, a crimson rash that grew to blisters--even inside the mouth--and finally death. Mother died first. At her loss Father became unwell in mind and body. Then he too, flew to the aetherial sea. The child was alone. Hydaelyn could only watch her struggle to comprehend what happened. The confusion, the fear, the loneliness, the grief; she felt it all, as though she experienced it through the child's eyes. Stelmaria hadn't eaten in two days. Her cheeks were flushed. She seemed tired. She lay down beside her father and grew still. Bells passed. A woman arrived and bore her away to safety. Hydaelyn wept again, this time from relief. The woman, whose name was Kona, and her mate, Rhaya, nursed the child through the sickness, fed and clothed her, and raised and loved her as one of their own. She learned to hunt by moonlight, to climb trees, swim, and fish. Kona taught her letters, numbers, and to fight with sword and dagger. Rhaya imparted cooking, sewing, and gardening. She made medicines and tanned leather and grew close with her sister Miah. Both girls fell in love and found mates. Stelmaria's mate disappeared without a trace. Then Dalamud fell. She became trapped in visions of Amaurot as the Shroud burned. The soul within her fully awakening but rendering her unable to help anyone, including herself. Miah died alongside her mate and her unborn kit. Hydaelyn wished with all her heart it wasn't so--but it was. Indeed it must be so in order for the woman she met in Elpis all those millenia ago to deliver Etheirys through Meteion's infinite lament. More years passed. Stelmaria joined the Gridanian archer's guild and started her life over again. The third time in the two decades. She worked hard, she made friends, and she healed. She learned to mix potions and distill herbal remedies from recipes developed by Miah, the better to keep her sister's memory alive. Yet more time passed. The Scions take notice and her true test begins. No god or mortal could stand against her, but the pain... the rage she kept inside. Many of Stelmaria's days were given over to grief and despair. What little comfort she managed to grasp was soon lost, whether by death, stubborn misunderstanding, or betrayal. Years upon years unceasing, both the warrior and Hydaelyn shedding tears over the deep wounds a withdrawal of love can leave behind. Still she fought without ceasing, the hope that better days would come burning fierce and bright inside her small, delicate frame. Finally they meet again. Here at the heart of the world. At the end of her long, long life. Hydaelyn couldn't be more proud of her chosen successor. Forging each hurt into scales for her armor. Pushing past tears and sorrow, to bear a torch through the cthonic silence of darkness and death so others may follow. Diminished in body but never in spirit, that was the true essence of Azem. The essence of Persephone as well, her devoted friend and student. And of Stelmaria, the brave spark that guttered and struggled, but never died out. "Tell me, my love, has your journey been good? Has it been worthwhile?" asks Hydaelyn. "Yes Mother Venat, it has. I thank you. For everything," answers the warrior, her shining star, standing on tiptoe to brush a kiss across the goddess' fading cheek. Diamond tears fall like rain, but in this moment, just this once, Venat does not weep alone.]]> #ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #endwalker #stelmaria #venat #fluff

warnings: death (a lot) ; illness ; grief

general: i hurt myself in my confusion

noun

  • a means of solving a problem or dealing with a difficult situation
  • a liquid mixture in which the minor component (the solute) is uniformly distributed within the major component (the solvent)

On the day she was born, Hydaelyn wept.

From her solitude deep within the aetherial sea she watched. Looked upon the squalling kit encircled by the mother's ghost-pale arms, her little red face squinched against the indignity of the world outside. Heard the father's earnest prayer of thanks to Menphina, coupled with a dedication that all three shall devote themselves to love in Her shining name.

In that moment Hydaelyn bequeathed the traveler's charm to this newest shard of Azem. A gift she knew the child would one day need.

One day was not now, however, and in watching the doting parents cuddle and kiss the tiny kit she was overcome by joy and hope. A sorrow most bittersweet, a sugar confection laced with wormwood. Hydaelyn sobbed at the scene and the Mothercrystal wept along with her.

This most precious daughter grew under the care and love of her blood parents. They named her Stelmaria, after the sea of stars through which Menphina sails upon her silvered boat each night. Like her mother, she was blessed with a sweet manner, alabaster skin, and delicate features, but the child's shining amaranthine locks, formidable will, and clever subtlety were her father's.

They were happy. Until the sickness came with fevers high enough to cause one endless hallucinations, headaches, vomiting, a crimson rash that grew to blisters—even inside the mouth—and finally death.

Mother died first. At her loss Father became unwell in mind and body. Then he too, flew to the aetherial sea.

The child was alone.

Hydaelyn could only watch her struggle to comprehend what happened. The confusion, the fear, the loneliness, the grief; she felt it all, as though she experienced it through the child's eyes.

Stelmaria hadn't eaten in two days. Her cheeks were flushed. She seemed tired. She lay down beside her father and grew still.

Bells passed.

A woman arrived and bore her away to safety. Hydaelyn wept again, this time from relief.

The woman, whose name was Kona, and her mate, Rhaya, nursed the child through the sickness, fed and clothed her, and raised and loved her as one of their own.

She learned to hunt by moonlight, to climb trees, swim, and fish. Kona taught her letters, numbers, and to fight with sword and dagger. Rhaya imparted cooking, sewing, and gardening. She made medicines and tanned leather and grew close with her sister Miah.

Both girls fell in love and found mates.

Stelmaria's mate disappeared without a trace.

Then Dalamud fell.

She became trapped in visions of Amaurot as the Shroud burned. The soul within her fully awakening but rendering her unable to help anyone, including herself.

Miah died alongside her mate and her unborn kit.

Hydaelyn wished with all her heart it wasn't so—but it was. Indeed it must be so in order for the woman she met in Elpis all those millenia ago to deliver Etheirys through Meteion's infinite lament.

More years passed.

Stelmaria joined the Gridanian archer's guild and started her life over again. The third time in the two decades.

She worked hard, she made friends, and she healed. She learned to mix potions and distill herbal remedies from recipes developed by Miah, the better to keep her sister's memory alive.

Yet more time passed.

The Scions take notice and her true test begins. No god or mortal could stand against her, but the pain... the rage she kept inside.

Many of Stelmaria's days were given over to grief and despair. What little comfort she managed to grasp was soon lost, whether by death, stubborn misunderstanding, or betrayal. Years upon years unceasing, both the warrior and Hydaelyn shedding tears over the deep wounds a withdrawal of love can leave behind.

Still she fought without ceasing, the hope that better days would come burning fierce and bright inside her small, delicate frame.

Finally they meet again. Here at the heart of the world. At the end of her long, long life.

Hydaelyn couldn't be more proud of her chosen successor. Forging each hurt into scales for her armor. Pushing past tears and sorrow, to bear a torch through the cthonic silence of darkness and death so others may follow. Diminished in body but never in spirit, that was the true essence of Azem.

The essence of Persephone as well, her devoted friend and student.

And of Stelmaria, the brave spark that guttered and struggled, but never died out.

“Tell me, my love, has your journey been good? Has it been worthwhile?” asks Hydaelyn.

“Yes Mother Venat, it has. I thank you. For everything,” answers the warrior, her shining star, standing on tiptoe to brush a kiss across the goddess' fading cheek.

Diamond tears fall like rain, but in this moment, just this once, Venat does not weep alone.

]]> https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-twenty-one-solution Thu, 22 Sep 2022 18:18:48 +0000 day twenty anon https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-twenty-anon?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #endwalker #stelmaria #zenos #wolzenos warnings: blood ; injury ; zenos being a creeper general: honestly just wasn’t feeling this one ho-hum but stel/zenos is and always will be complicated adverb * soon; shortly !--more-- The long years of pursuit were over. Sparkling dawn crawls over the bare horizon, reaching to caress them with gentle tendrils of golden light. Stelmaria is beautifully lethal as ever and the picture of serenity, save the white knuckle grip on her elegant epee. Zenos’ wide smile is pure joy, his boyish dimples making a rare appearance, though incongruous in the presence of wild azure eyes. “My dearest friend. My beast. My only. The day has dawned! The promised ‘anon’ has finally arrived.” She watches his every move, silent, so still she might be hewn of bright marble. “Come, let us dance together at the end of all things. Sunder not that which the gods have joined, my friend. Nay! Dream with me of blood and fire, of ringing steel and galloping hearts! Let your fangs meet in my throat to sate the gnawing worm in your belly, the one that hungers for my demise!” He stalks closer, pulse thundering when she does not step away. The smell of her; blood and ash and myrrh and crushed petals smeared on alabaster skin. His mouth waters. Ignoring him, her gaze cuts to the side, toward her prone companion, the blood smeared across his tunic and crystalline weapon matching his brilliant crimson hair. Zenos continues, memorizing the effect his words have on her, “I know you have desired this day as much as I. We are two of a kind, twin flames burning bright; seeing each other for exactly what we are—no more, no less.” She pales, brow wrinkled, clearly thinking hard. It’s not difficult to guess what’s racing through her head. Circling behind, his lips find the pulse at her throat, whispering into the soft, warm skin there, tattooing the words with the force of his will. “I need only you, my soul. Give into our desires and I shall not harm him further. Come and dream with me. Come alive with me; relish these moments on the knife’s edge as I know you do.” “That I cannot deny.” Her smile is wry. Smug and twisted as a crown of brambles. “Acceptance at last! We dance in darkness, love. We dance in the rise of the moon and sun, the implosion of stars, and the dying of the light. Let us consume the flames of our lives in the pursuit of violent joy, my dear!” She laughs; the high, wild laugh he hasn’t heard in years. Not since Yanxia and the opium. Spirits soaring, they draw their weapons and charge.]]> #ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #endwalker #stelmaria #zenos #wolzenos

warnings: blood ; injury ; zenos being a creeper

general: honestly just wasn’t feeling this one ho-hum but stel/zenos is and always will be complicated

adverb

  • soon; shortly

The long years of pursuit were over.

Sparkling dawn crawls over the bare horizon, reaching to caress them with gentle tendrils of golden light.

Stelmaria is beautifully lethal as ever and the picture of serenity, save the white knuckle grip on her elegant epee.

Zenos’ wide smile is pure joy, his boyish dimples making a rare appearance, though incongruous in the presence of wild azure eyes. “My dearest friend. My beast. My only. The day has dawned! The promised ‘anon’ has finally arrived.”

She watches his every move, silent, so still she might be hewn of bright marble.

“Come, let us dance together at the end of all things. Sunder not that which the gods have joined, my friend. Nay! Dream with me of blood and fire, of ringing steel and galloping hearts! Let your fangs meet in my throat to sate the gnawing worm in your belly, the one that hungers for my demise!”

He stalks closer, pulse thundering when she does not step away. The smell of her; blood and ash and myrrh and crushed petals smeared on alabaster skin. His mouth waters.

Ignoring him, her gaze cuts to the side, toward her prone companion, the blood smeared across his tunic and crystalline weapon matching his brilliant crimson hair.

Zenos continues, memorizing the effect his words have on her, “I know you have desired this day as much as I. We are two of a kind, twin flames burning bright; seeing each other for exactly what we are—no more, no less.”

She pales, brow wrinkled, clearly thinking hard. It’s not difficult to guess what’s racing through her head.

Circling behind, his lips find the pulse at her throat, whispering into the soft, warm skin there, tattooing the words with the force of his will. “I need only you, my soul. Give into our desires and I shall not harm him further. Come and dream with me. Come alive with me; relish these moments on the knife’s edge as I know you do.”

“That I cannot deny.” Her smile is wry. Smug and twisted as a crown of brambles.

“Acceptance at last! We dance in darkness, love. We dance in the rise of the moon and sun, the implosion of stars, and the dying of the light. Let us consume the flames of our lives in the pursuit of violent joy, my dear!”

She laughs; the high, wild laugh he hasn’t heard in years. Not since Yanxia and the opium.

Spirits soaring, they draw their weapons and charge.

]]> https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-twenty-anon Tue, 20 Sep 2022 20:51:20 +0000 day ten channel https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-ten-channel?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #endwalker #spoilers #wolgraha #stelmaria #graha #poppy #summoner warnings: none general: uhhhh. it’s not what you think it is lol. noun the bed where a natural stream of water runs OR the deeper part of a river, harbor, or strait OR a strait or narrow sea between two close landmasses a means of communication or expression a way, course, or direction of thought or action a band of frequencies of sufficient width for a single radio or television communication verb to form, cut, or wear a channel in OR to make a groove in to convey or direct into or through a channel * to serve as a channeler or intermediary for !--more-- She swallows hard, every muscle tensing in anticipation as the pressure builds behind her eyes. "Steady," mutters Raha, lips slightly parted as if he can taste the heavy air. He doesn’t touch her, but stands near enough she feels the heat of him on her skin. A whimper catches in her throat, her knees press together and tremble as she fights to maintain focus on her task as a whirling maelstrom of power roars within. Raha steps to the side, the sound of his boots and the cinnamon scent of him so distracting she almost loses control. However the Warrior of Light is no stranger to unexpected interruption. She holds fast against the storm and finishes the casting with a masterful stroke. Stelmaria’s eyes flutter open. She utters a word of power, an empty structure wrought of theory, a skeleton framework of hope and desire, soon to be covered over by will manifested as magicked flesh—a vessel for the divine spark of inspiration to inhabit. To experience both its own existence and that of all creation. To live. And to adventure. The largest fragment of her shattered focus vanishes from her hand, accepted. "You've done it! I knew you could. You should be proud, love." G’raha folds her in a tight embrace, scattering kisses over her face and shoulders. For him the exertions are over. The months upon months of study on esoteric topics first uncovered by ancient Allagan mages, only recently unearthed by Raha himself. Then he embarked upon the laborious work of translating these amorphous concepts into a theoretical foundation Stelmaria might then apply to real-world experimentation. Stelmaria grins at her husband’s enthusiasm, but she has eyes only for the coalescing lump of gentle pink-tinted light nearby. As it assumes the shape of its own choosing, she chews her lip, suddenly nervous about this first meeting between new acquaintances. What will she do if it dislikes being channeled into an incarnate form? Resents her earnest plea and her presence? Or Raha’s? “Say hello,” he prompts. “Hello.” A vibration reaches across the infinite space between souls to probe her thoughts, tentative and sweet as though seeking permission. She responds in kind with a filament of her own, gentle, slow—determined to have this first impression go well. ‘Mother?’ The creature hums, unsure. ‘Master.’ ‘Stelmaria,’ she answers, thinking of herself as a concept. ‘G’raha,’ she continues, thinking of her companion. ‘Friends. Warm,’ comes the reply and the light shimmers, twisting and lengthening, pulling and folding in on itself like the taffy she’d loved as a child. It seems to reach a decision, assuming a form with an audible ‘pop’. It settles into the shape of a carbuncle, though it’s longer and far more lithe than any carbuncle she’s ever seen in Limsa or Idyllshire. Reminiscent of a ferret or whittret as opposed to a rabbit or kitten type creature. “Welcome, friend!” exclaims Raha. The carbuncle just stares, cocking its head. Its long, thin ears lay flat above the clever black eyes—almost too clever—which turn to gaze at her, ‘Where? Go?’ “Adventure,” explains Stelmaria, both aloud and in her mind.]]> #ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #endwalker #spoilers #wolgraha #stelmaria #graha #poppy #summoner

warnings: none

general: uhhhh. it’s not what you think it is lol.

noun

  • the bed where a natural stream of water runs OR the deeper part of a river, harbor, or strait OR a strait or narrow sea between two close landmasses
  • a means of communication or expression
  • a way, course, or direction of thought or action
  • a band of frequencies of sufficient width for a single radio or television communication

verb

  • to form, cut, or wear a channel in OR to make a groove in
  • to convey or direct into or through a channel
  • to serve as a channeler or intermediary for

She swallows hard, every muscle tensing in anticipation as the pressure builds behind her eyes.

“Steady,” mutters Raha, lips slightly parted as if he can taste the heavy air.

He doesn’t touch her, but stands near enough she feels the heat of him on her skin.

A whimper catches in her throat, her knees press together and tremble as she fights to maintain focus on her task as a whirling maelstrom of power roars within.

Raha steps to the side, the sound of his boots and the cinnamon scent of him so distracting she almost loses control.

However the Warrior of Light is no stranger to unexpected interruption.

She holds fast against the storm and finishes the casting with a masterful stroke.

Stelmaria’s eyes flutter open. She utters a word of power, an empty structure wrought of theory, a skeleton framework of hope and desire, soon to be covered over by will manifested as magicked flesh—a vessel for the divine spark of inspiration to inhabit.

To experience both its own existence and that of all creation.

To live.

And to adventure.

The largest fragment of her shattered focus vanishes from her hand, accepted.

“You've done it! I knew you could. You should be proud, love.” G’raha folds her in a tight embrace, scattering kisses over her face and shoulders.

For him the exertions are over. The months upon months of study on esoteric topics first uncovered by ancient Allagan mages, only recently unearthed by Raha himself. Then he embarked upon the laborious work of translating these amorphous concepts into a theoretical foundation Stelmaria might then apply to real-world experimentation.

Stelmaria grins at her husband’s enthusiasm, but she has eyes only for the coalescing lump of gentle pink-tinted light nearby.

As it assumes the shape of its own choosing, she chews her lip, suddenly nervous about this first meeting between new acquaintances. What will she do if it dislikes being channeled into an incarnate form? Resents her earnest plea and her presence? Or Raha’s?

“Say hello,” he prompts.

“Hello.”

A vibration reaches across the infinite space between souls to probe her thoughts, tentative and sweet as though seeking permission.

She responds in kind with a filament of her own, gentle, slow—determined to have this first impression go well.

‘Mother?’ The creature hums, unsure. ‘Master.’

‘Stelmaria,’ she answers, thinking of herself as a concept. ‘G’raha,’ she continues, thinking of her companion.

‘Friends. Warm,’ comes the reply and the light shimmers, twisting and lengthening, pulling and folding in on itself like the taffy she’d loved as a child.

It seems to reach a decision, assuming a form with an audible ‘pop’.

It settles into the shape of a carbuncle, though it’s longer and far more lithe than any carbuncle she’s ever seen in Limsa or Idyllshire. Reminiscent of a ferret or whittret as opposed to a rabbit or kitten type creature.

“Welcome, friend!” exclaims Raha.

The carbuncle just stares, cocking its head. Its long, thin ears lay flat above the clever black eyes—almost too clever—which turn to gaze at her, ‘Where? Go?’

“Adventure,” explains Stelmaria, both aloud and in her mind.

]]> https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-ten-channel Sun, 11 Sep 2022 18:58:40 +0000 day eight tepid https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-eight-tepid?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #heavensward #stormblood #shadowbringers #endwalker #stelmaria #haurchefant #yotsuyu #graha #wolgraha #spoilers warnings: blood ; description of a deep abdominal wound ; i be spoiling everything up in here general: feels ; hurt/comfort kinda; this just kinda took on a life of its own ; fuck if i know adjective (especially of a liquid) only slightly warm; lukewarm. showing little enthusiasm !--more-- Glowing logs crackle and snap, then rustle as the soft piles of ash collapse under their own weight. Flames flicker and dance, casting grotesque and outsized shadows on the walls. The heat spreading from the grate is strong and steady, yet it barely takes the edge off the omnipresent chill. Stelmaria slouches deeper into the thick quilt, pulling her stockinged feet up off the freezing floor. This unrelenting cold weather makes her bones ache and her nose run  freely no matter how many warming tonics she forces down her throat. Camp Dragonhead is silent as a tomb this late, or this early, depending on your point of view. These bells before the first delicate peach and gold stripes of dawn reach for the eastern sky is the best time to sift through her muddled thoughts. “Would you like company my friend? I’ve brought you a little something.” Heavily distracted, an awkward amount of time passes before Stelmaria realizes Haurchefant is speaking to her, much less to register what he's asking. His smile never falters, even as the silence stretches on. “Oh,” she murmurs, scooting to make him a space beside her. “That’s very kind of you.” He shakes his head, silver-blue hair sparkling in the firelight, “Please, think nothing of it.” There is a gently steaming mug in each of his broad, calloused hands. They, much like everything else about the elezen, are sturdy and dependable at any time of day or night. And Stelmaria had cause to know. She takes one from him, chapped skin greedy for the accumulated warmth of both mug and palm. Except it isn't as hot as she assumed it would be. "Did I burn the milk?" His voice is concerned. Her confusion must have been obvious. "I just assumed it would be boiling hot," she explains, letting the wafting chocolate and cinnamon smell bolster her heart. A single brow lifts before he chuckles, warm and sultry enough to shame the blazing fire. "Ah no... I always thought it impolite to serve a drink so hot your guest cannot enjoy it at its most delicious. As it cools the chocolate settles to the bottom. If you daub cream in top it melts right away." "I see," she says, without truly seeing. He grins, cheeks coloring as he replaces the quilt slipping down her narrow shoulder. "In my admittedly inexpert opinion, hot chocolate  should be served at a temperature just above tepid. That's when everything is in balance, the taste, the scent, even the look of it. As a host that is the moment where I can maximize my guest's enjoyment." "And being a true paragon of knighthood—living to serve and all that—hospitality is all about giving your best for another," she teases. That first sip is smooth and rich, everything a sweet drink meant to warm from the inside out should be. Heaven contained within a humble earthenware mug. "Indeed. Though the way may be difficult and the task daunting, to be a knight is to throw yourself against the odds and succeed," he says heartily, clinking the lip of his mug against her own. The more of Haurchefant she sees the more she grows to like him. His flowery offers of shelter, sympathy, and friendship unnerved her at first, but with every word and deed he'd proved himself the genuine article—a true man of virtue. Her second sip is even better than the first somehow, spreading warmth and comfort from her heart to every ilm of her tense limbs. "You would go so far for just a friend?" "No such thing as ‘just a friend’ my dearest Warrior. Every soul is special to someone and should be treated as such." Her throat tightens, "And if the someones have all gone? What then?" He puts his mug on the side table and faces her, clear blue eyes quite serious, "They haven't gone. The missing Scions will be found in time. Alphinaud and Tataru love you like family. And..." Hesitating, he glances away. "And?" "And I would care for you as well. If it's not..." "It's not," she says, and resettles the quilt to cover him as well. Two against the world, instead of just one. --- “Stella? What’s this?” asks the innocent, bird-like voice, so very different from the imperious tone that haunts her dreams. Dreams of opium scented smoke and sharp pinpricks of pain. Of moon-pale breasts clasped to moon-pale breasts. Crimson lips and fragrant petals. Gunpowder and blood and castles falling into the sea. Tsuyu’s wide, guileless eyes gaze at Stelmaria over the steaming mug, politely waiting for an answer. Tsuyu and not Yotsuyu. "It's called hot chocolate. Drink it before it gets cold." “Hot?” Tsuyu repeats, concerned. “Well, it’s more warm than hot really,” Stel admits. “Go on. You won’t burn your mouth, I promise.” “All right!” the Doman woman chirps, before quaffing the lot in one go like a greedy child. “Thank you!” Stel does her best to smother a giggle. “What did you think?” The carmine lips purse under a thin film of hot chocolate. “More, please?” --- “Lyna, I beg you. Leave me to my rest.” G’raha Tia does his utmost to sound terse. Really, he just wants a few bells of peace to catch up on his reports. He’s been shamefully behind since Stelmaria appeared in the First and his extended convalescence upon returning from The Tempest hasn’t helped matters in the slightest. The knock comes again, more insistent this time, but the accompanying voice isn’t Lyna. “There’s no tricking me with that half hearted nonsense, and if it wouldn’t fool me you can be certain Lyna won’t believe it either.” His crimson ears flatten, eyes darting everywhere to locate an escape only to come up empty. Every ilm of his flesh aches and the wound where Chessamile pried the flattened round from his shoulder itches like demon’s fury. He’s refused to accept help to bathe himself, neither has he finished a meal nor slept more than a bell at a time. In short, he’s a mess and the Warrior is about to find out how low he can sink. She must have grown tired of waiting for his reply because she breezes into his bedroom while he’s still debating jumping out the window. “Drink this,” she commands and places a steaming mug on his bedside table, heedlessly upsetting his careful piles of notes, books, and broken quills to do so. He identifies it by scent alone. “Hot chocolate?” “Yes,” she replies, without elaborating. “Drink that while I run a bath for you.” The Lord of the Crystarium nearly spits the sweet mouthful across the room. “Bath?!” “Lyna tells me you seem uncomfortable at the idea of her assistance, but she’s worried you’ll make yourself ill.” He tries a confident chuckle before having a nonchalant sip of the chocolate, “Lyna is—“ “A lovely sweet woman who’s put up with her beloved grandfather’s ridiculous foolishness for decades? Yes I’ve heard all about it. Leaving aside Lyna’s observations, Chessamile tells me you smell like an unwashed amaro and you’re neither eating nor sleeping.” Her entire diatribe is delivered in bursts as she stalks between his bedside—where she oversees his hot chocolate consumption—and his adjoining bathroom, where presumably a tub full of hot water awaits. There’s no use in further obstruction. He swallows the last of the drink like an obedient kit and accepts her help in rising from his bed. She smells of myrrh and orange blossoms, staying close to his side in case he trips, patiently attending his plodding steps. The chocolate, much to his surprise, radiates warm contentment from his belly. “I’m glad you came. That you’re here,” he murmurs. He doesn’t mean the drink or the bath. Her face relaxes, the slow smile spreading over her features the same one he remembers from their adventures in the tower, all those years ago, when things were simple and a future together wasn’t an impossible dream. “Me too,” she replies. --- They had gone to the end of the universe together, just the two of them, all the way out past the razor edge of existence where the fabric of time and space begins to unravel. A place where anything that might be imagined can and does spring into being. An eternal new beginning, the promise of life and hope stretching across that endless expanse the way that dawn brings a new day, all color in motion and joyous to behold. She fought Zenos to the death there. She watched him breathe his last, whispering words to speed him on his return to the aetherial sea. She bled there. Shrapnel from her shattered rapier embedded like diamonds in her skin. The hole Zenos put in her belly oozing dark, dark blood. The smell... all wrong... He placed a spell there, for healing, but it wouldn't stick. He tried staunching the wound the old fashioned way, using the pressure of his hands. But the hole... it was so big... he couldn't... it wouldn't... something soft... the blood... She was dying and he could not save her. Yet, with a miraculous series of beeps they reappeared aboard the Ragnarok, spurring a frantic rush of movement and sound. Everyone trying to heal her all at once. Alphinaud, Alisaie, Yshtola, Urianger, at one point Thancred found a potion that he tipped down her throat, and Estinien snapped commands to the Lopporits to 'get this woman to a healer and do it now.' Sharlayan. The best doctors the nation could claim decided some of her organs were obliterated but no one will give him details. He just can't stop thinking about how far into the hole his hands could slip. It turns his stomach. A hot bath in the annex. The water red as wine, red like Dalamud, circling the drain to slip away and disappear. A comfortable bed where he won't sleep. He can't sleep. Not until she wakes. Exhausted but tense, he pads to the kitchen and puts milk in a pan to warm. Then finds the chocolate and cinnamon and sugar and cream. He decides to make it exactly how she does, down to which hand she uses to stir the finished mixture—always seven times clockwise—to set the magic charm. He adds everything she likes, as though he's planning to bring it to her, extra cream, extra shavings, extra cinnamon, and extra sweet. Extra sweet, like her. His throat tightens, burning as if he's swallowed the sun. He breathes slow. Concentrate. Breathe again. It's done. He takes it to her, thinking maybe she'll wake. The bed seems huge, or perhaps she seems smaller than usual. The gleaming violet curtain of her hair fans over the pillow like a goddess' halo. Her narrow chest rises and falls but she's so ghostly pale, the only spots of color aside from her hair are the ugly bruises from the rapier shrapnel. Her chocolate goes on the nightstand and he sits beside her, the burst of anxious energy that carried him this far finally spent. He takes her freezing hand and rubs it between his own, trying to ignore the insistent belief that they've come to the end of things before they had a chance to begin. "Is that chocolate?" His laughter turns to tears as he runs his lips greedily over the back of her hand, and "Yes. Yes it is. It should be the perfect temperature for you to drink."]]> #ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #heavensward #stormblood #shadowbringers #endwalker #stelmaria #haurchefant #yotsuyu #graha #wolgraha #spoilers

warnings: blood ; description of a deep abdominal wound ; i be spoiling everything up in here

general: feels ; hurt/comfort kinda; this just kinda took on a life of its own ; fuck if i know

adjective

  • (especially of a liquid) only slightly warm; lukewarm.
  • showing little enthusiasm

Glowing logs crackle and snap, then rustle as the soft piles of ash collapse under their own weight. Flames flicker and dance, casting grotesque and outsized shadows on the walls. The heat spreading from the grate is strong and steady, yet it barely takes the edge off the omnipresent chill.

Stelmaria slouches deeper into the thick quilt, pulling her stockinged feet up off the freezing floor. This unrelenting cold weather makes her bones ache and her nose run  freely no matter how many warming tonics she forces down her throat.

Camp Dragonhead is silent as a tomb this late, or this early, depending on your point of view. These bells before the first delicate peach and gold stripes of dawn reach for the eastern sky is the best time to sift through her muddled thoughts.

“Would you like company my friend? I’ve brought you a little something.”

Heavily distracted, an awkward amount of time passes before Stelmaria realizes Haurchefant is speaking to her, much less to register what he's asking. His smile never falters, even as the silence stretches on.

“Oh,” she murmurs, scooting to make him a space beside her. “That’s very kind of you.”

He shakes his head, silver-blue hair sparkling in the firelight, “Please, think nothing of it.”

There is a gently steaming mug in each of his broad, calloused hands. They, much like everything else about the elezen, are sturdy and dependable at any time of day or night.

And Stelmaria had cause to know.

She takes one from him, chapped skin greedy for the accumulated warmth of both mug and palm.

Except it isn't as hot as she assumed it would be.

“Did I burn the milk?” His voice is concerned.

Her confusion must have been obvious. “I just assumed it would be boiling hot,” she explains, letting the wafting chocolate and cinnamon smell bolster her heart.

A single brow lifts before he chuckles, warm and sultry enough to shame the blazing fire. “Ah no... I always thought it impolite to serve a drink so hot your guest cannot enjoy it at its most delicious. As it cools the chocolate settles to the bottom. If you daub cream in top it melts right away.”

“I see,” she says, without truly seeing.

He grins, cheeks coloring as he replaces the quilt slipping down her narrow shoulder. “In my admittedly inexpert opinion, hot chocolate  should be served at a temperature just above tepid. That's when everything is in balance, the taste, the scent, even the look of it. As a host that is the moment where I can maximize my guest's enjoyment.”

“And being a true paragon of knighthood—living to serve and all that—hospitality is all about giving your best for another,” she teases.

That first sip is smooth and rich, everything a sweet drink meant to warm from the inside out should be. Heaven contained within a humble earthenware mug.

“Indeed. Though the way may be difficult and the task daunting, to be a knight is to throw yourself against the odds and succeed,” he says heartily, clinking the lip of his mug against her own.

The more of Haurchefant she sees the more she grows to like him. His flowery offers of shelter, sympathy, and friendship unnerved her at first, but with every word and deed he'd proved himself the genuine article—a true man of virtue.

Her second sip is even better than the first somehow, spreading warmth and comfort from her heart to every ilm of her tense limbs.

“You would go so far for just a friend?”

“No such thing as ‘just a friend’ my dearest Warrior. Every soul is special to someone and should be treated as such.”

Her throat tightens, “And if the someones have all gone? What then?”

He puts his mug on the side table and faces her, clear blue eyes quite serious, “They haven't gone. The missing Scions will be found in time. Alphinaud and Tataru love you like family. And...”

Hesitating, he glances away.

“And?”

“And I would care for you as well. If it's not...”

“It's not,” she says, and resettles the quilt to cover him as well. Two against the world, instead of just one.

“Stella? What’s this?” asks the innocent, bird-like voice, so very different from the imperious tone that haunts her dreams.

Dreams of opium scented smoke and sharp pinpricks of pain. Of moon-pale breasts clasped to moon-pale breasts. Crimson lips and fragrant petals.

Gunpowder and blood and castles falling into the sea.

Tsuyu’s wide, guileless eyes gaze at Stelmaria over the steaming mug, politely waiting for an answer.

Tsuyu and not Yotsuyu.

“It's called hot chocolate. Drink it before it gets cold.”

“Hot?” Tsuyu repeats, concerned.

“Well, it’s more warm than hot really,” Stel admits. “Go on. You won’t burn your mouth, I promise.”

“All right!” the Doman woman chirps, before quaffing the lot in one go like a greedy child. “Thank you!”

Stel does her best to smother a giggle. “What did you think?”

The carmine lips purse under a thin film of hot chocolate. “More, please?”

“Lyna, I beg you. Leave me to my rest.” G’raha Tia does his utmost to sound terse.

Really, he just wants a few bells of peace to catch up on his reports. He’s been shamefully behind since Stelmaria appeared in the First and his extended convalescence upon returning from The Tempest hasn’t helped matters in the slightest.

The knock comes again, more insistent this time, but the accompanying voice isn’t Lyna. “There’s no tricking me with that half hearted nonsense, and if it wouldn’t fool me you can be certain Lyna won’t believe it either.”

His crimson ears flatten, eyes darting everywhere to locate an escape only to come up empty. Every ilm of his flesh aches and the wound where Chessamile pried the flattened round from his shoulder itches like demon’s fury. He’s refused to accept help to bathe himself, neither has he finished a meal nor slept more than a bell at a time.

In short, he’s a mess and the Warrior is about to find out how low he can sink.

She must have grown tired of waiting for his reply because she breezes into his bedroom while he’s still debating jumping out the window. “Drink this,” she commands and places a steaming mug on his bedside table, heedlessly upsetting his careful piles of notes, books, and broken quills to do so.

He identifies it by scent alone. “Hot chocolate?”

“Yes,” she replies, without elaborating. “Drink that while I run a bath for you.”

The Lord of the Crystarium nearly spits the sweet mouthful across the room. “Bath?!”

“Lyna tells me you seem uncomfortable at the idea of her assistance, but she’s worried you’ll make yourself ill.”

He tries a confident chuckle before having a nonchalant sip of the chocolate, “Lyna is—“

“A lovely sweet woman who’s put up with her beloved grandfather’s ridiculous foolishness for decades? Yes I’ve heard all about it. Leaving aside Lyna’s observations, Chessamile tells me you smell like an unwashed amaro and you’re neither eating nor sleeping.”

Her entire diatribe is delivered in bursts as she stalks between his bedside—where she oversees his hot chocolate consumption—and his adjoining bathroom, where presumably a tub full of hot water awaits.

There’s no use in further obstruction. He swallows the last of the drink like an obedient kit and accepts her help in rising from his bed.

She smells of myrrh and orange blossoms, staying close to his side in case he trips, patiently attending his plodding steps. The chocolate, much to his surprise, radiates warm contentment from his belly.

“I’m glad you came. That you’re here,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t mean the drink or the bath.

Her face relaxes, the slow smile spreading over her features the same one he remembers from their adventures in the tower, all those years ago, when things were simple and a future together wasn’t an impossible dream.

“Me too,” she replies.

They had gone to the end of the universe together, just the two of them, all the way out past the razor edge of existence where the fabric of time and space begins to unravel. A place where anything that might be imagined can and does spring into being.

An eternal new beginning, the promise of life and hope stretching across that endless expanse the way that dawn brings a new day, all color in motion and joyous to behold.

She fought Zenos to the death there. She watched him breathe his last, whispering words to speed him on his return to the aetherial sea.

She bled there. Shrapnel from her shattered rapier embedded like diamonds in her skin. The hole Zenos put in her belly oozing dark, dark blood. The smell... all wrong... He placed a spell there, for healing, but it wouldn't stick. He tried staunching the wound the old fashioned way, using the pressure of his hands.

But the hole... it was so big... he couldn't... it wouldn't... something soft... the blood...

She was dying and he could not save her.

Yet, with a miraculous series of beeps they reappeared aboard the Ragnarok, spurring a frantic rush of movement and sound. Everyone trying to heal her all at once. Alphinaud, Alisaie, Yshtola, Urianger, at one point Thancred found a potion that he tipped down her throat, and Estinien snapped commands to the Lopporits to 'get this woman to a healer and do it now.'

Sharlayan.

The best doctors the nation could claim decided some of her organs were obliterated but no one will give him details. He just can't stop thinking about how far into the hole his hands could slip.

It turns his stomach.

A hot bath in the annex. The water red as wine, red like Dalamud, circling the drain to slip away and disappear.

A comfortable bed where he won't sleep.

He can't sleep. Not until she wakes.

Exhausted but tense, he pads to the kitchen and puts milk in a pan to warm. Then finds the chocolate and cinnamon and sugar and cream.

He decides to make it exactly how she does, down to which hand she uses to stir the finished mixture—always seven times clockwise—to set the magic charm. He adds everything she likes, as though he's planning to bring it to her, extra cream, extra shavings, extra cinnamon, and extra sweet.

Extra sweet, like her.

His throat tightens, burning as if he's swallowed the sun. He breathes slow. Concentrate. Breathe again.

It's done.

He takes it to her, thinking maybe she'll wake.

The bed seems huge, or perhaps she seems smaller than usual. The gleaming violet curtain of her hair fans over the pillow like a goddess' halo. Her narrow chest rises and falls but she's so ghostly pale, the only spots of color aside from her hair are the ugly bruises from the rapier shrapnel.

Her chocolate goes on the nightstand and he sits beside her, the burst of anxious energy that carried him this far finally spent.

He takes her freezing hand and rubs it between his own, trying to ignore the insistent belief that they've come to the end of things before they had a chance to begin.

“Is that chocolate?”

His laughter turns to tears as he runs his lips greedily over the back of her hand, and “Yes. Yes it is. It should be the perfect temperature for you to drink.”

]]> https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-eight-tepid Fri, 09 Sep 2022 13:20:50 +0000 day six onerous https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-six-onerous?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #endwalker #shadowbringers #ancients #hythhades #worldunsundered #spoilers warnings: implied bullying/blackballing due to prejudice general: endwalker/shadowbringers spoilers ; the ancients were poly af, change my mind ; watch me make this shit up as i go along in 3, 2, 1… adjective * (of a task, duty, or responsibility) involving an amount of effort and difficulty that is oppressively burdensome. !--more-- Interminable. These long ceremonies of investiture are absolutely interminable. Boring, pompous, long-winded, and frankly unnecessary when there was so much work to be done these days. And yet here is Hades, suffering at Hythlodaeus’ behest; which isn’t that unusual to be fair but at least today’s reason is something of a novelty. Today, Hythlodaeus’ twin sister ascends to the seat of Azem. Hades knows of his companion’s sister, but he’s never seen her. This sad state of affairs is not for lack of trying on Hyth’s part—far from it. It’s more to do with the woman’s odd habit of sequestering herself deep within the bowels of the Words of Halmarut for weeks or months at a time. ‘To better focus on her research,’ explains her smiling twin, as if that explains anything at all. Outside the obvious shared parentage with his partner, Hades is aware of very few solid facts. Firstly, her name is Freyja. Secondly, she’s considered the preeminent protégée of Halmarut and Emmeroloth, having excelled in the creation of new, useful concepts that blend the best aspects of both subjects. This work with concepts alone should have been enough to see her a seated member of Convocation, or at the very least the frontrunner to replace her mentors, however… A rumor runs quickly for great distances and on legs longer than any concept known to mankind, nor does it tire or suffer from forgetfulness. Unfortunate then that rumors are the only source for the paltry remainder of his knowledge. Lastly, she takes after the twin’s father, Njörðr, an odd man so enamored with the peoples and cultures not of Amaurot he’d taken one of these unnamed outsiders to wife, adopted as his own name the one gifted him by the tribe, and even going so far as to name his offspring following the same tribal traditions. Hence the twin’s unusual paired names: Freyja and Freyr. Besides being held to account for her father's perceived social wrongdoings, Freyja indulges in eccentricities of her own including the refusal to change her birth name even after her twin changed his, and a propensity toward working with her hands, mixing odd concoctions from physical specimens rather than experimenting on concepts via theoretical calculations—among other things. All of which is anathema of the highest order to run of the mill Amaurotines. Her stubborn refusal to give up manual labor is likely why she smells of some fragrant spice, discernable on the air as she walks past with her long black veil dragging behind, while the Convocation waits, seated and dour on the dais ahead. More then half of their number seem less than pleased at this turn of events, the corners of their mouths turned down sharply enough to cut stone. Nonconformity is the greatest social evil amongst modern citizens of Amaurot. Most would do anything required, pay any price to go unnoticed and unremarked. They wish to be normal like everyone else. It can be inferred then, without hyperbole, that eccentric is not a label one would wish to be saddled with in Amaurot, and the proof of the theory requires no further investigation than the case of Freyja. Upon Halmarut’s retirement it seemed obvious who should succeed, yet Freyja remained a simple researcher through (rumored) no choice of her own. Talented yes, but just a researcher. Similarly, when old Emmeroloth desired a return to the star, Freyja’s name surfaced again and again as a suitable replacement among those familiar with her work, however in the end the honor of the seat was extended to another. Some say that both positions are now lesser for this blatant favoritism, but this, like so much else, is rumor and no more than that. Hades shakes himself from deep reverie at Hyth’s insistent tugging on his sleeve. His gaze happily glowing lavender eyes, which haven't faltered for a moment in the face of his lover’s complete inattention. “Here we go,” Hyth murmurs, soft and dewy with pride at his sibling finally gaining the recognition she’d been denied. Azem begins to speak ponderous words regarding ‘the vibrant soul that now stands before us.’ The blue eyed, silver haired woman launches into an exhaustive listing of Freyja’s many accomplishments, both solo and in the company of Azem. Hades has long since lost the thread of the presentation entirely, unable to focus on anything but the poor veiled woman’s hands, clenched white-knuckled into fists and shaking like the final leaves on a tree. “A lucky thing indeed that Azem took an interest in Lady,” whispers Hyth, stirring Hades’ white hair as he speaks into his partner’s ear. “She’d have spent an eternity locked away in a basement somewhere just singing to her plants, the flowers in her hair growing wild. All that talent gone to waste from sheer stubbornness.” He clucks like a mother hen worried for her smallest chick, “At least as Azem she can live, expand her horizons, broaden her friend circle outside of just Óðinn and I, maybe even fall in love?” It takes Hades a long moment to remember that Lady is one of Hyth’s many pet names for his sister and to further recall the name Óðinn refers to a childhood friend of the twins, yet another hopeless eccentric. “You shouldn’t meddle Hyth, it makes people irritated,” Hades grouses in an undertone. “Your sister is a woman grown and from the sound of it eminently capable. I have no doubt she will excel as Azem.” His lover only smiles, “You are right of course. How easy it is for those of us who are comfortable with affection to forget the way that love can smother as well as uplift.” Hades opens his mouth to reply to the—in his opinion—uncalled for jab but in the same instant Azem finishes speaking. Solemn, she removes her crimson mask of office before replacing it with the simple white one most Amaurotines wear, including Hades himself. Turning, she lifts a smaller version of the same crimson mask, meant for someone with more delicate features, and extends it to Freyja like a gift. The pale, shaking hands take the mask and draw it beneath the dark veil. A moment passes. Two. The hand extends once more and Azem, now Venat, places a glowing yellow-orange crystal in the very center of the slim palm. The fingers close, the stone brightens, and a low hum fills the room. The Convocation members watch with baited breath. The heavy veil drops with a sensuous rustle to the gleaming floor and Azem, newly masked, turns to greet the gathered assembly. A tall man with brilliant red hair and striking sanguine eyes rushes to embrace her, but there is a moment where Hades catches a glimpse of Freyja’s face. It is enough to leave him breathless. Her long, flowing tresses are several shades darker than Hythlodaeus’ lavender locks, and seemingly composed of both hair and blossoms in the same heliotrope shade. She’s small for an Amaurotine and slight of build, almost bird or doll like, and gifted with her brother’s otherworldly beauty to boot. They are, quite unmistakably, twins. Surrounded on all sides by a crowd of well-wishers she doesn’t speak, only smiles. Her redheaded companion—doubtless Óðinn—stays close, observing others as they interact with her with open curiosity, as if he is just as interested in her reactions as he is the behavior of those who wish to congratulate her. “We should offer our most heartfelt congratulations, don’t you agree Hades?” asks Hyth, though he isn’t really asking, as he’s already out of his seat and darting toward his sister through the crowd like a fish slicing through water. Hades heaves a sigh and follows, though it takes him at least three times as long to reach the center of the crowd. When he does finally manage the task and stands next to Azem, his partner is nowhere to be found. Such is the way of things. “I wished to congratulate you, though I wonder if I should. You seemed nervous,” remarks Hades with his characteristic bluntness. “I will accept whatever my brother’s partner wishes to extend to me,” she replies smoothly in a voice as warm and comforting as a nap in the sunshine. “I hope the nerves will wear off after sufficient time has passed. Besides, Venat plans to refrain from returning to the star for some while yet, so I shall have her wisdom to guide me.” Ah… an eccentric soul drawn to an eccentric soul. Of course. The retiring instructor that refuses to follow custom and the wide-eyed student grateful for an experienced puppeteer. Venat has managed the trick of retiring while still having a voice in the Convocation. Hades is suddenly very glad indeed that this burden, this mantle of responsibility for the safety and growth of the star has not passed to him. Nor shall it ever if he has anything to say about it. He simply doesn’t have the temperament for it. “Doubtless she will be of great comfort to you, should you need her, Freyja.” She shakes her head, the flowers rustling and scenting the air, “It’s not Freyja anymore. Changing it was a requirement for accepting the seat.” A thin filament of anger rises in him at the pettiness of those chittering old fools in their straight backed chairs. He smothers it viciously—that battle is not his to fight, though he would dearly love to, if only to make them all terribly uncomfortable, “Azem it is then.” He bows and makes to leave, bored of playing the game for today. “My brother's beloved should never address me by such formal means, Hades. Please, my name is Persephone.” Persephone? He freezes, rooted to the spot as his every hair stands on end. What is she doing? To choose that name as a replacement and then to have the Convocation just accept it? Persephone, the thresher of men. He very nearly laughs aloud at the cleverness of it. The sheer gall, to make a show of yielding to their wishes then proceeding to choose a name so old… So cursed. She is clever indeed, this unassuming little woman with her blossoming hair and her subtle insubordination. No doubt Venat had a hand in this as well. Woe betide any doddering old fart who places themselves against these two united. Hythlodaeus reappears like magic and restarts the conversation with his sister and friend as though he never disappeared before Hades can fully digest this information, let alone act on it. Surprised, he finds himself at a rather embarrassing loss for words, choosing to cover it by raising her hand to his lips. At this distance he comes to realize how different her eyes are from her brother’s—a strange and beautiful amber color, a red gold like ambrosia or warm, liquid honey. “Despoina Persephone,” Hades says, nerves coming alive at the old honorific tumbling from his lips. “I wish to know you better, as my partner’s sister. Perhaps—” “You should come to dinner!” interrupts Hyth, in unrestrained glee. “You too, Óðinn. No excuses.” The crimson haired man laughs and bows, eyes dancing with boundless curiosity. He is beautiful too, in his own way. “The pleasure would be ours, my friends.” Hades will not, will never, allow himself to be drawn into these political games and machinations for which he has no patience. However he will shoulder any burden, fight any foe, or move any mountain for those he loves.]]> #ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #endwalker #shadowbringers #ancients #hythhades #worldunsundered #spoilers

warnings: implied bullying/blackballing due to prejudice

general: endwalker/shadowbringers spoilers ; the ancients were poly af, change my mind ; watch me make this shit up as i go along in 3, 2, 1…

adjective

  • (of a task, duty, or responsibility) involving an amount of effort and difficulty that is oppressively burdensome.

Interminable.

These long ceremonies of investiture are absolutely interminable.

Boring, pompous, long-winded, and frankly unnecessary when there was so much work to be done these days.

And yet here is Hades, suffering at Hythlodaeus’ behest; which isn’t that unusual to be fair but at least today’s reason is something of a novelty.

Today, Hythlodaeus’ twin sister ascends to the seat of Azem.

Hades knows of his companion’s sister, but he’s never seen her. This sad state of affairs is not for lack of trying on Hyth’s part—far from it. It’s more to do with the woman’s odd habit of sequestering herself deep within the bowels of the Words of Halmarut for weeks or months at a time.

‘To better focus on her research,’ explains her smiling twin, as if that explains anything at all.

Outside the obvious shared parentage with his partner, Hades is aware of very few solid facts.

Firstly, her name is Freyja.

Secondly, she’s considered the preeminent protégée of Halmarut and Emmeroloth, having excelled in the creation of new, useful concepts that blend the best aspects of both subjects.

This work with concepts alone should have been enough to see her a seated member of Convocation, or at the very least the frontrunner to replace her mentors, however…

A rumor runs quickly for great distances and on legs longer than any concept known to mankind, nor does it tire or suffer from forgetfulness.

Unfortunate then that rumors are the only source for the paltry remainder of his knowledge.

Lastly, she takes after the twin’s father, Njörðr, an odd man so enamored with the peoples and cultures not of Amaurot he’d taken one of these unnamed outsiders to wife, adopted as his own name the one gifted him by the tribe, and even going so far as to name his offspring following the same tribal traditions.

Hence the twin’s unusual paired names: Freyja and Freyr.

Besides being held to account for her father's perceived social wrongdoings, Freyja indulges in eccentricities of her own including the refusal to change her birth name even after her twin changed his, and a propensity toward working with her hands, mixing odd concoctions from physical specimens rather than experimenting on concepts via theoretical calculations—among other things.

All of which is anathema of the highest order to run of the mill Amaurotines.

Her stubborn refusal to give up manual labor is likely why she smells of some fragrant spice, discernable on the air as she walks past with her long black veil dragging behind, while the Convocation waits, seated and dour on the dais ahead. More then half of their number seem less than pleased at this turn of events, the corners of their mouths turned down sharply enough to cut stone.

Nonconformity is the greatest social evil amongst modern citizens of Amaurot. Most would do anything required, pay any price to go unnoticed and unremarked.

They wish to be normal like everyone else.

It can be inferred then, without hyperbole, that eccentric is not a label one would wish to be saddled with in Amaurot, and the proof of the theory requires no further investigation than the case of Freyja.

Upon Halmarut’s retirement it seemed obvious who should succeed, yet Freyja remained a simple researcher through (rumored) no choice of her own. Talented yes, but just a researcher.

Similarly, when old Emmeroloth desired a return to the star, Freyja’s name surfaced again and again as a suitable replacement among those familiar with her work, however in the end the honor of the seat was extended to another.

Some say that both positions are now lesser for this blatant favoritism, but this, like so much else, is rumor and no more than that.

Hades shakes himself from deep reverie at Hyth’s insistent tugging on his sleeve. His gaze happily glowing lavender eyes, which haven't faltered for a moment in the face of his lover’s complete inattention. “Here we go,” Hyth murmurs, soft and dewy with pride at his sibling finally gaining the recognition she’d been denied.

Azem begins to speak ponderous words regarding ‘the vibrant soul that now stands before us.’ The blue eyed, silver haired woman launches into an exhaustive listing of Freyja’s many accomplishments, both solo and in the company of Azem.

Hades has long since lost the thread of the presentation entirely, unable to focus on anything but the poor veiled woman’s hands, clenched white-knuckled into fists and shaking like the final leaves on a tree.

“A lucky thing indeed that Azem took an interest in Lady,” whispers Hyth, stirring Hades’ white hair as he speaks into his partner’s ear. “She’d have spent an eternity locked away in a basement somewhere just singing to her plants, the flowers in her hair growing wild. All that talent gone to waste from sheer stubbornness.” He clucks like a mother hen worried for her smallest chick, “At least as Azem she can live, expand her horizons, broaden her friend circle outside of just Óðinn and I, maybe even fall in love?”

It takes Hades a long moment to remember that Lady is one of Hyth’s many pet names for his sister and to further recall the name Óðinn refers to a childhood friend of the twins, yet another hopeless eccentric.

“You shouldn’t meddle Hyth, it makes people irritated,” Hades grouses in an undertone. “Your sister is a woman grown and from the sound of it eminently capable. I have no doubt she will excel as Azem.”

His lover only smiles, “You are right of course. How easy it is for those of us who are comfortable with affection to forget the way that love can smother as well as uplift.”

Hades opens his mouth to reply to the—in his opinion—uncalled for jab but in the same instant Azem finishes speaking.

Solemn, she removes her crimson mask of office before replacing it with the simple white one most Amaurotines wear, including Hades himself. Turning, she lifts a smaller version of the same crimson mask, meant for someone with more delicate features, and extends it to Freyja like a gift.

The pale, shaking hands take the mask and draw it beneath the dark veil.

A moment passes.

Two.

The hand extends once more and Azem, now Venat, places a glowing yellow-orange crystal in the very center of the slim palm.

The fingers close, the stone brightens, and a low hum fills the room.

The Convocation members watch with baited breath.

The heavy veil drops with a sensuous rustle to the gleaming floor and Azem, newly masked, turns to greet the gathered assembly.

A tall man with brilliant red hair and striking sanguine eyes rushes to embrace her, but there is a moment where Hades catches a glimpse of Freyja’s face.

It is enough to leave him breathless.

Her long, flowing tresses are several shades darker than Hythlodaeus’ lavender locks, and seemingly composed of both hair and blossoms in the same heliotrope shade. She’s small for an Amaurotine and slight of build, almost bird or doll like, and gifted with her brother’s otherworldly beauty to boot. They are, quite unmistakably, twins.

Surrounded on all sides by a crowd of well-wishers she doesn’t speak, only smiles. Her redheaded companion—doubtless Óðinn—stays close, observing others as they interact with her with open curiosity, as if he is just as interested in her reactions as he is the behavior of those who wish to congratulate her.

“We should offer our most heartfelt congratulations, don’t you agree Hades?” asks Hyth, though he isn’t really asking, as he’s already out of his seat and darting toward his sister through the crowd like a fish slicing through water.

Hades heaves a sigh and follows, though it takes him at least three times as long to reach the center of the crowd. When he does finally manage the task and stands next to Azem, his partner is nowhere to be found. Such is the way of things.

“I wished to congratulate you, though I wonder if I should. You seemed nervous,” remarks Hades with his characteristic bluntness.

“I will accept whatever my brother’s partner wishes to extend to me,” she replies smoothly in a voice as warm and comforting as a nap in the sunshine. “I hope the nerves will wear off after sufficient time has passed. Besides, Venat plans to refrain from returning to the star for some while yet, so I shall have her wisdom to guide me.”

Ah… an eccentric soul drawn to an eccentric soul. Of course. The retiring instructor that refuses to follow custom and the wide-eyed student grateful for an experienced puppeteer.

Venat has managed the trick of retiring while still having a voice in the Convocation.

Hades is suddenly very glad indeed that this burden, this mantle of responsibility for the safety and growth of the star has not passed to him. Nor shall it ever if he has anything to say about it.

He simply doesn’t have the temperament for it.

“Doubtless she will be of great comfort to you, should you need her, Freyja.”

She shakes her head, the flowers rustling and scenting the air, “It’s not Freyja anymore. Changing it was a requirement for accepting the seat.”

A thin filament of anger rises in him at the pettiness of those chittering old fools in their straight backed chairs. He smothers it viciously—that battle is not his to fight, though he would dearly love to, if only to make them all terribly uncomfortable, “Azem it is then.”

He bows and makes to leave, bored of playing the game for today.

“My brother's beloved should never address me by such formal means, Hades. Please, my name is Persephone.”

Persephone?

He freezes, rooted to the spot as his every hair stands on end.

What is she doing? To choose that name as a replacement and then to have the Convocation just accept it?

Persephone, the thresher of men.

He very nearly laughs aloud at the cleverness of it. The sheer gall, to make a show of yielding to their wishes then proceeding to choose a name so old… So cursed.

She is clever indeed, this unassuming little woman with her blossoming hair and her subtle insubordination.

No doubt Venat had a hand in this as well.

Woe betide any doddering old fart who places themselves against these two united.

Hythlodaeus reappears like magic and restarts the conversation with his sister and friend as though he never disappeared before Hades can fully digest this information, let alone act on it. Surprised, he finds himself at a rather embarrassing loss for words, choosing to cover it by raising her hand to his lips.

At this distance he comes to realize how different her eyes are from her brother’s—a strange and beautiful amber color, a red gold like ambrosia or warm, liquid honey.

“Despoina Persephone,” Hades says, nerves coming alive at the old honorific tumbling from his lips. “I wish to know you better, as my partner’s sister. Perhaps—”

“You should come to dinner!” interrupts Hyth, in unrestrained glee. “You too, Óðinn. No excuses.”

The crimson haired man laughs and bows, eyes dancing with boundless curiosity. He is beautiful too, in his own way. “The pleasure would be ours, my friends.”

Hades will not, will never, allow himself to be drawn into these political games and machinations for which he has no patience.

However he will shoulder any burden, fight any foe, or move any mountain for those he loves.

]]> https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/day-six-onerous Wed, 07 Sep 2022 12:42:50 +0000 divergence https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/divergence?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[#endwalker #felstel #wolship #ffxiv #wolshipewfic “Nah, I dun mind books so much. I’ll stay in Sharlayan an’ ya go to Thavnair, Stel.” Her violet tail dances in mirth, “What’s that, liar? You’re going to Thavnair, of course.” “Yes. Please go to Thavnair, Felcy’ra.” Krile’s protest is accompanied by a great sigh and a certain tension to her jawline, as though just the idea of dealing with Fel on a research project team is enough to set her teeth on edge. Fel pouts, glancing at Alisaie for backup. The young elezen raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. This is Fel’s battle to lose. He narrows his one visible eye at G’raha Tia, who is oblivious, deep in scholarly conversation with Alphinaud. !--more-- “How many bells a day do you believe we may spend in the Noumenon, Krile? Eight? Twelve? Perhaps fourteen?” Stel asks, her tone sweet and innocent. Krile, ever quick to cotton on, feigns surprise, “Did no one inform you? Eighteen hours minimum is the planned schedule. Mayhap we will study longer depending on what, if any, information we unearth.” “I see. Then surely there will be frequent breaks and a ready supply of decent food?” Stel’s toothy grin bears an uncanny resemblance to the expression Fel normally wears. It’s enough to make no small number of the Scion’s blood run cold. “I must apologize, but no,” replies Krile, quite serious. “I fear we have no time for breaks and the only foodstuffs the much diminished Baldesion budget can currently supply is Archon bread and weak tea.” At the words ‘Archon bread’ Fel’s ears go flat. ‘Weak tea’ seems to be the finishing blow. “I’m goin’ to Thavnair,” he monotones. --- After Fel takes his leave with a distracted kiss across her cheek, Stel raises a brow at her companions, “Can we really only afford tea and Archon bread?” Alisaie and Krile dissolve into ringing peals of laughter, startling G’raha and Alphinaud out of their discussion. “Absolutely not. Even if our funding was that dire I would not subject any of you, much less myself, to those sorts of inhumane working conditions,” explains Krile, wiping streaming eyes. “Excellent. I would have stayed in any case, but if it was necessary to rid ourselves of the sort of mischief only a bored Felcy’ra can manage it seemed a small price to pay.” The group indulges in personal reminiscences of bored Fel, shuddering as a unit before trooping en masse out the Annex doors and toward the library in high spirits. --- In the split second after arriving via unattuned aetheryte to Yedlihmad, a veritable feast of delicious smells assails Fel’s nose. His belly gives an answering rumble and he believes, for one blissful moment, that Thavnair was the better choice. Then comes a full body wave of mind bending nausea; the sort where you have an absolute certainty that if you opened your mouth, you would be revisited by meals eaten in childhood. He falls to hands and knees, unable to control his own body, falling into a long series of shivering cold sweats. The belly that rejoiced at the prospect of new and exciting foods but moments ago now gyrates in the back of his throat, ready to empty itself on the baking sands of Radz-at-Han—wrung out like a dirty dishrag. By the Twelve what sort of torture from the Seventh Hell is this? Archon loaf would be preferable to this. Sadly, the thought of the fish laden bread calls to mind an unbidden and unwelcome recollection of its taste. The unpleasant, grainy texture. The heavy chewiness of it—the way it sticks to your teeth and seizes up one’s jaw. And this is to say nothing of the smell: a dockside fish market at high noon in summer, mixed with over processed plant matter of a decidedly unfresh nature, and overlaid with a fragrance not unlike an auroch’s arse. Estinien’s boots pay the ultimate price for Fel’s momentary lapse of concentration. --- The light in Krile’s eyes is ethereal and strange, radiating a peaceful calm that Stel finds unnerving in contrast to the words her friend is speaking. Words from Hydaelyn. "In darkness, seek joy. Surrender not to sadness, and see beyond despair. Walk free, and bear the light for others to follow." Stel glances with apprehension at the pale blossom in her even paler hand, the petals unfurling gracefully around the delicate center. Reminding her of the halo of light sometimes visible around the moon on the coldest nights of the year. However, its soft pearlescent glow is somehow threatening in its serenity. A ball of ice slips down her throat, coming to rest in her belly, burning there with cold ferocity. For a long moment, she thinks to behold the expression on Fel’s face; to sort through her own emotions by observing his. It takes another moment for her to recall he has gone to Thavnair: he is not by her side—his solid presence an immeasurable source of support—nor he will he know of this development until she tells him the details. She feels his absence like the keenest blade. --- ”Stel does alchemy too. Not like dis kind though, the other kind,” announces Fel. Nidhana looks up from analyzing the drunken deepa’s recorded data, “Stel?” Thancred and Estinien chuckle. Urianger explains, “Another of our bosom companions. The Lady Stelmaria is the other Warrior of Light and Felcy’ra’s dearest—” Fel gives a loud, fake cough, the tiniest flush blooming under his cheeks. Urianger fixes him with a stare wrought of solid steel but chooses to let sleeping chocobos lie. Nidhana throws back her head and laughs, trunk curling upward and eyes crinkling. “A warrior and an alchemist? She sounds quite formidable. I should like to meet her one day when all this is over.” “Aye,” grunts Fel, absorbed in checking his side arm for microscopic flaws. Thancred watches with barely restrained glee. The good-natured arkasodara returns to her work. “‘Tis a wonderful thing to have special friends to share your failures and triumphs with, is it not? The bitter turns to sweet and the sweet becomes all the sweeter.” “‘Tis indeed, my lady,” says Urianger. --- Discovered and apprehended. Called up on the carpet before the Forum like a group of naughty children when they were only asking questions. And sneaking through disused mine tunnels, yes. Though if that had gone wrong they would have inconvenienced none but themselves. The back and forth arguing between her fellow Scions and the Forum members sets Stel’s teeth on edge. G’raha, showing a glimmer of the Exarch’s gift for public speaking with gravitas, holds forth on the Forum floor about his restricted section discoveries. Every pair of eyes in the place is glued to his face and in watching she recalls—vividly—why she loved him. Once. “No longer was knowledge preserved for the benefit of society, rather society was to be gradually reshaped to ensure the preservation of knowledge. A current runs through the room like levin. Several of the figures clad in graceful, flowing white silk sit straighter in their high-backed chairs. “The most conspicuous and telling change was the one which befell Labyrinthos. Once little more than an oversized storehouse, an enormous allocation of funds saw it transformed into an advanced research and archival facility. “I also discovered a fascinating account on the finances of our Dravanian colony. The settlement attracted students from far and wide, and the connections and the tuition fees thus acquired were funneled into further improvements for the archives.” The rustling of fabric grows louder, the esteemed representatives murmuring to each other in undertones or else settling themselves to stare at G'raha Tia in rapt attention. To Stelmaria they look rather like a flock of game birds disgruntled to discover a predator in their midst, but rather than flee they choose to flap their wings at each other and scratch the dirt for insects. “Now there is no question that our nation’s progress is tied to the acquisition of wisdom. Nevertheless the vast resources diverted for this purpose borders on the obscene. Forchenault Leveilleur's lips pinch into a thin, mottled line. “But returning to the matter of when…” A pregnant pause allows the crowd to tense in anticipation as G'raha lines up to deliver the final shot. “Our change in course appears to have been made some 270 years ago.” Y'shtola gasps, “The very same period when Sharlayan scholars in the Hinterlands began a formal study of the aetherial sea. The two miqo’te share a meaningful glance before Y'shtola continues, tart as a lemon and delivering each word with mocking venom, “You found something did you not, and whatever it was gave rise to your oh so important duty?” Alisaie stares at her erstwhile father, and only her father. A strained voice rings out across the marble floors, “Mind your tongue, Archon. If you had seen—” The man stops and grabs at his throat, gasping. “Some form of enchantment. A binding, mayhap?” G’raha muses to himself in an undertone. “It puts me in mind of a fae geas. They keep silent in regards to whatever it is they know or they face consequences. Mayhap I should ask \[our beautiful branch\] what they think,” observes Stelmaria wryly. G’raha studies the small woman, eyes dancing in amusement, “Mayhap you should. No doubt they have a most enlightening opinion.” Fourchenault speaks over the rising din, trying to be the voice of reason, but G’raha moves closer to his companion so she may hear his next words with perfect clarity, “Whatever their reasoning, I intend to discover it by any means necessary.” --- Bang. Bang. Bang. Fel growls in annoyance as Fandaniel seems to magick himself right out of the path of every loosed round. Even angry as he is, Fel never misses. Yet, the shots fly wide, embedding themselves in the undulating walls and floors or ricocheting off into nothingness. It makes him see red. The voices of the dead and the damned cry louder, ringing in his ears. He can hear their endless screaming. He bites the inside of his mouth—sharp, curved fang piercing smooth flesh. The taste of his own hot, coppery blood spreading across his tongue cools his temper enough to focus: Ya can’t win this one champ. Just learn what’cha can. Not a difficult proposition, as it turns out: Fandaniel is overly fond of the sound of his own voice and freely shares no small amount of details for upcoming plans, but the tantalizing fragments are just enough to make clear the huge swathes of information the Scions lack. In the end, Fandaniel flounces away unharmed while Nidhana remains trapped within the tower, the prototype scale rests somewhere at the bottom of the impenetrable labyrinth, and Fel struggles against a bitter wave of frustration that threatens to swallow him whole.]]> #endwalker #felstel #wolship #ffxiv #wolshipewfic

“Nah, I dun mind books so much. I’ll stay in Sharlayan an’ ya go to Thavnair, Stel.”

Her violet tail dances in mirth, “What’s that, liar? You’re going to Thavnair, of course.”

“Yes. Please go to Thavnair, Felcy’ra.” Krile’s protest is accompanied by a great sigh and a certain tension to her jawline, as though just the idea of dealing with Fel on a research project team is enough to set her teeth on edge.

Fel pouts, glancing at Alisaie for backup.

The young elezen raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. This is Fel’s battle to lose.

He narrows his one visible eye at G’raha Tia, who is oblivious, deep in scholarly conversation with Alphinaud.

“How many bells a day do you believe we may spend in the Noumenon, Krile? Eight? Twelve? Perhaps fourteen?” Stel asks, her tone sweet and innocent.

Krile, ever quick to cotton on, feigns surprise, “Did no one inform you? Eighteen hours minimum is the planned schedule. Mayhap we will study longer depending on what, if any, information we unearth.”

“I see. Then surely there will be frequent breaks and a ready supply of decent food?” Stel’s toothy grin bears an uncanny resemblance to the expression Fel normally wears. It’s enough to make no small number of the Scion’s blood run cold.

“I must apologize, but no,” replies Krile, quite serious. “I fear we have no time for breaks and the only foodstuffs the much diminished Baldesion budget can currently supply is Archon bread and weak tea.”

At the words ‘Archon bread’ Fel’s ears go flat. ‘Weak tea’ seems to be the finishing blow. “I’m goin’ to Thavnair,” he monotones.

After Fel takes his leave with a distracted kiss across her cheek, Stel raises a brow at her companions, “Can we really only afford tea and Archon bread?”

Alisaie and Krile dissolve into ringing peals of laughter, startling G’raha and Alphinaud out of their discussion.

“Absolutely not. Even if our funding was that dire I would not subject any of you, much less myself, to those sorts of inhumane working conditions,” explains Krile, wiping streaming eyes.

“Excellent. I would have stayed in any case, but if it was necessary to rid ourselves of the sort of mischief only a bored Felcy’ra can manage it seemed a small price to pay.”

The group indulges in personal reminiscences of bored Fel, shuddering as a unit before trooping en masse out the Annex doors and toward the library in high spirits.

In the split second after arriving via unattuned aetheryte to Yedlihmad, a veritable feast of delicious smells assails Fel’s nose. His belly gives an answering rumble and he believes, for one blissful moment, that Thavnair was the better choice.

Then comes a full body wave of mind bending nausea; the sort where you have an absolute certainty that if you opened your mouth, you would be revisited by meals eaten in childhood.

He falls to hands and knees, unable to control his own body, falling into a long series of shivering cold sweats. The belly that rejoiced at the prospect of new and exciting foods but moments ago now gyrates in the back of his throat, ready to empty itself on the baking sands of Radz-at-Han—wrung out like a dirty dishrag.

By the Twelve what sort of torture from the Seventh Hell is this?

Archon loaf would be preferable to this.

Sadly, the thought of the fish laden bread calls to mind an unbidden and unwelcome recollection of its taste. The unpleasant, grainy texture. The heavy chewiness of it—the way it sticks to your teeth and seizes up one’s jaw. And this is to say nothing of the smell: a dockside fish market at high noon in summer, mixed with over processed plant matter of a decidedly unfresh nature, and overlaid with a fragrance not unlike an auroch’s arse.

Estinien’s boots pay the ultimate price for Fel’s momentary lapse of concentration.

The light in Krile’s eyes is ethereal and strange, radiating a peaceful calm that Stel finds unnerving in contrast to the words her friend is speaking.

Words from Hydaelyn.

“In darkness, seek joy. Surrender not to sadness, and see beyond despair. Walk free, and bear the light for others to follow.”

Stel glances with apprehension at the pale blossom in her even paler hand, the petals unfurling gracefully around the delicate center. Reminding her of the halo of light sometimes visible around the moon on the coldest nights of the year. However, its soft pearlescent glow is somehow threatening in its serenity.

A ball of ice slips down her throat, coming to rest in her belly, burning there with cold ferocity.

For a long moment, she thinks to behold the expression on Fel’s face; to sort through her own emotions by observing his.

It takes another moment for her to recall he has gone to Thavnair: he is not by her side—his solid presence an immeasurable source of support—nor he will he know of this development until she tells him the details.

She feels his absence like the keenest blade.

”Stel does alchemy too. Not like dis kind though, the other kind,” announces Fel.

Nidhana looks up from analyzing the drunken deepa’s recorded data, “Stel?”

Thancred and Estinien chuckle. Urianger explains, “Another of our bosom companions. The Lady Stelmaria is the other Warrior of Light and Felcy’ra’s dearest—”

Fel gives a loud, fake cough, the tiniest flush blooming under his cheeks. Urianger fixes him with a stare wrought of solid steel but chooses to let sleeping chocobos lie.

Nidhana throws back her head and laughs, trunk curling upward and eyes crinkling. “A warrior and an alchemist? She sounds quite formidable. I should like to meet her one day when all this is over.”

“Aye,” grunts Fel, absorbed in checking his side arm for microscopic flaws. Thancred watches with barely restrained glee.

The good-natured arkasodara returns to her work. “‘Tis a wonderful thing to have special friends to share your failures and triumphs with, is it not? The bitter turns to sweet and the sweet becomes all the sweeter.”

“‘Tis indeed, my lady,” says Urianger.

Discovered and apprehended.

Called up on the carpet before the Forum like a group of naughty children when they were only asking questions.

And sneaking through disused mine tunnels, yes.

Though if that had gone wrong they would have inconvenienced none but themselves.

The back and forth arguing between her fellow Scions and the Forum members sets Stel’s teeth on edge.

G’raha, showing a glimmer of the Exarch’s gift for public speaking with gravitas, holds forth on the Forum floor about his restricted section discoveries. Every pair of eyes in the place is glued to his face and in watching she recalls—vividly—why she loved him.

Once.

“No longer was knowledge preserved for the benefit of society, rather society was to be gradually reshaped to ensure the preservation of knowledge.

A current runs through the room like levin. Several of the figures clad in graceful, flowing white silk sit straighter in their high-backed chairs.

“The most conspicuous and telling change was the one which befell Labyrinthos. Once little more than an oversized storehouse, an enormous allocation of funds saw it transformed into an advanced research and archival facility.

“I also discovered a fascinating account on the finances of our Dravanian colony. The settlement attracted students from far and wide, and the connections and the tuition fees thus acquired were funneled into further improvements for the archives.”

The rustling of fabric grows louder, the esteemed representatives murmuring to each other in undertones or else settling themselves to stare at G'raha Tia in rapt attention.

To Stelmaria they look rather like a flock of game birds disgruntled to discover a predator in their midst, but rather than flee they choose to flap their wings at each other and scratch the dirt for insects.

“Now there is no question that our nation’s progress is tied to the acquisition of wisdom. Nevertheless the vast resources diverted for this purpose borders on the obscene.

Forchenault Leveilleur's lips pinch into a thin, mottled line.

“But returning to the matter of when…” A pregnant pause allows the crowd to tense in anticipation as G'raha lines up to deliver the final shot. “Our change in course appears to have been made some 270 years ago.”

Y'shtola gasps, “The very same period when Sharlayan scholars in the Hinterlands began a formal study of the aetherial sea.

The two miqo’te share a meaningful glance before Y'shtola continues, tart as a lemon and delivering each word with mocking venom, “You found something did you not, and whatever it was gave rise to your oh so important duty?”

Alisaie stares at her erstwhile father, and only her father.

A strained voice rings out across the marble floors, “Mind your tongue, Archon. If you had seen—” The man stops and grabs at his throat, gasping.

“Some form of enchantment. A binding, mayhap?” G’raha muses to himself in an undertone.

“It puts me in mind of a fae geas. They keep silent in regards to whatever it is they know or they face consequences. Mayhap I should ask [our beautiful branch] what they think,” observes Stelmaria wryly.

G’raha studies the small woman, eyes dancing in amusement, “Mayhap you should. No doubt they have a most enlightening opinion.”

Fourchenault speaks over the rising din, trying to be the voice of reason, but G’raha moves closer to his companion so she may hear his next words with perfect clarity, “Whatever their reasoning, I intend to discover it by any means necessary.”

Bang.

Bang. Bang.

Fel growls in annoyance as Fandaniel seems to magick himself right out of the path of every loosed round.

Even angry as he is, Fel never misses.

Yet, the shots fly wide, embedding themselves in the undulating walls and floors or ricocheting off into nothingness.

It makes him see red.

The voices of the dead and the damned cry louder, ringing in his ears.

He can hear their endless screaming.

He bites the inside of his mouth—sharp, curved fang piercing smooth flesh. The taste of his own hot, coppery blood spreading across his tongue cools his temper enough to focus: Ya can’t win this one champ. Just learn what’cha can.

Not a difficult proposition, as it turns out: Fandaniel is overly fond of the sound of his own voice and freely shares no small amount of details for upcoming plans, but the tantalizing fragments are just enough to make clear the huge swathes of information the Scions lack.

In the end, Fandaniel flounces away unharmed while Nidhana remains trapped within the tower, the prototype scale rests somewhere at the bottom of the impenetrable labyrinth, and Fel struggles against a bitter wave of frustration that threatens to swallow him whole.

]]> https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/divergence Mon, 13 Dec 2021 20:04:17 +0000 voyage https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/voyage?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[#endwalker #felstel #wolship #nsfw #ffxiv #wolshipewfic The brisk, salty sea breeze on deck banishes the last lingering tendrils of nausea. While the tonic she’d taken eased the symptoms of seasickness somewhat, Stelmaria spent much of the voyage doing all in her power to keep meals down. In the far distance, illuminated by the soft glow of a sun rising through morning haze, lies their destination: an island covered in vibrant greenery and dotted by stately white edifices all facing a bustling harbor, in which the statue of a man kneels, pouring an endless stream of water from the pitcher balanced on one sculpted shoulder. Sharlayan. The city of scholars. Felcy’ra stares in the city’s direction, though his eyes are unfocused and unseeing. Perceiving something other than the ship’s rocking deck. Something that creases his brows and exposes one menacing fang. !--more-- “Fel?” she whispers, for once not worried that her last meal will make an appearance along with her words. He blinks, the dark clouds upon his brow lightening as she crosses the creaking timbers on unsteady sea legs. “How ya doin’, sprout? How’s ya brekky sittin’?” “Well enough, seeing as I haven’t had any to begin with,” she quips. Stel seizes his arm at the railing, desperate to remain on the ship in spite of a particularly large lurch of the deck and her belly. A grin spreads across his own features at her pinched expression. Fel’s body adjusts to the ship’s movements as though he were born on the water. Additionally he’d evaded any and all symptoms of seasickness—much to Stel’s chagrin. Not that she could stay upset with him. Not when he’d been so gentle and conscientious of her needs since they’d left port: getting her fresh water or lighter fare, distracting her with bawdy jokes and wild tales, keeping the others from disturbing her rest with a deftness that surprised her. “Glad ya feelin’ better, but ya a tad late developin’ ya sea legs to be honest. We’re almost to harbor and steady land.” “Menphina is most merciful to the least of her children,” Stel replies, a wry twist to her lips. “I’d pay a heap of good gil to see ya be what anyone migh’ consider least, sprout, an’ tha’s no lie.” She opens her mouth to retort, but a sudden burst of spray soaks the fluttering hem of her red skirt, “Seven hells!” Fel, dry of course, smirks at Alisaie, who has just now emerged from below deck to make an exaggerated stretch in the morning sunshine. The young woman smirks in kind—the pair of them are a menace indeed—and takes the rare opportunity to tease Stel, “Ah no. Nothing sadder than a wet cat.” “Rude,” says Y’shtola, herding the rest of the Scions onto the deck ahead of her. The arrival of their friends turns the topic to business, but the buzz of conversation around her is most comforting. So too is the warmth of Fel’s hand wrapped around hers and the faint stirring of her violet hair as he chuffs softly into her ear. “What were you looking at earlier?” she murmurs, pitching her voice low so that only he could hear. He shakes his head, shaggy ponytail swaying with the motion, and fixes his peridot eye on the others. Very well. She would ask again later in private. --- ”You know there’s no need to tease G’raha like that,” she sighs. A sharp bark of laughter rings loud in the cozy room. The air from his lungs chills the moistness where his hot mouth had been on her skin, raising goosebumps and drawing forth a shiver. “All the times to talk abou’ G’raha an’ this is when ya bring it up? Ya gone crazy?” Fel grins, wicked, and presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh, just above the knee. “You great beast; so what if I have? Who’s fault would that be?” Again, a kiss, although higher this time—perhaps halfway to her hip. She reaches to grip a velvet ear in anticipation but he bats her hands away. “Mine, o’ course, ‘cause I been teasing ya. Wasn’ teasing him though—just ya.” Another kiss, but this one is not anywhere on her thigh. Nor is it a kiss so much as it is a slow, deliberate drag of clever tongue across wildly sensitive parts, before closing his mouth over the prize to apply suction. “Twelve preserve,” she breathes, seeing stars. Tease indeed. The pair of them were supposed to be resting, but several long days and nights spent at sea with zero privacy and… Well… There was very little sleeping going on. “You were teasing him though.” Trying to put a sentence together while he amuses her is like digging a hole in the mud—as soon as two words link properly another pair slips apart. “Nah. Wouldn’ dream of it,” he replies smoothly, with all the innocence of a kit with a hand in the cookie jar. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’ think of anything to tease him about—” Stel laughs at the chuckle rumbling from his chest, “You putting your needy hands round my waist at every opportunity during Krile’s tour was not teasing?” He props up on elbows and meets her gaze, the unruly flop of bang covering the golden eye he disliked—but she loved, “Nah. Didn’ want ya to fall off the pier or into any of the fountains. Ya was a little discombobulated maybe? What with all the blushing an’ gigglin’ ya were doin’.” Her pulse rises in her pale cheeks, higher than it already was, “That was because you would kiss me every time Krile turned her back to us?!” “Ya had some crumbs left from lunch on ya face. I was jus’ takin’ care of it for ya, like a gentleman.” Incredulous, her mouth falls open, “Crumbs?!” “Aye, crumbs.” “Just because you are a horrible, evil man who can’t eat without a bib does not mean that I—” she begins, eyes twinkling. Quick as a wink, Fel slithers up the length of her languid body to kiss her into silence. His skin is scented with the green wildness of deep forests and smeared in her own musky slick. She moans at the throb low in her belly, the blaze within growing brighter at every touch of his scarred hands. He turns his head to taste the skin of her shoulder and whispers, “Crumbs.” With rather more force than strictly necessary she manages to pin the laughing male keeper to the mattress, straddling him and ignoring the hot hardness pressed against her belly and mound. “And the pinching? Was it absolutely critical for you to repeatedly squeeze my bottom out in public?” “Aye, the future of Eorzea depends on it.” His grin is so wide she is quite sure she can see every one of his pure white teeth. Not the answer she expected. Fel continues, “‘Cause I don’ wanna save a world where G’raha ain’t spittin’ jealous of how I got ya all to myself.” “So it was teasing?” she clarifies in mock seriousness. He says nothing, only rubs his thumbs across the soft flesh of her ribs, tracing the curve of bone beneath. The smile fades and his eyes glitter, becoming sharp enough to cleave her open with just a glance. “How cruel. I shall have to punish you.” His eyes bore into her, “Aye.” She wraps a hand around him and cocks her hips, rubbing her soft, sensitive nether lips against his throbbing length. Looking for all the world like a mad coeurl in heat. --- ”What did you see earlier? You never said.” Her voice is muffled with both sleep and the pillow where she’s buried her head, but he reasons well enough what she’s asked. “The lady of light,” he replies, drawing idle shapes over the beautiful curves of her naked back. “She said to seek light in darkness—that I was gonna be tested.” She shifts to take in his face, gazing at him tenderly with eyes muzzy from sleep, “We’ll make it. We’re together.” He nods, leaning down to press his mouth to the raised scar at her shoulder, “Aye.” This thing between them was new and somewhat strange: at times delicate and fragile as spun glass; at other times as strong as forged adamantite. It was different from all the other times they’d tried to be together—some fundamental shift in attitudes and desires occurred somewhere along the line. Where exactly he couldn’t say, and he suspected that neither could she, but the fact of the matter was she gave him life, her daily presence brought a steady glow of joy to his soul. It felt right. “Aye,” she echoes, raising herself on her elbows to kiss him softly, like the ephemeral brush of a morpho’s wings. “Now sleep before Krile charges in and beats us to death for not following her direction to rest.” Sprawling next to her, he relaxes without even trying, able to drift off to the steady rhythm of her breathing close by. The lavender and myrrh scent of her skin perfumes his dreams.]]> #endwalker #felstel #wolship #nsfw #ffxiv #wolshipewfic

The brisk, salty sea breeze on deck banishes the last lingering tendrils of nausea. While the tonic she’d taken eased the symptoms of seasickness somewhat, Stelmaria spent much of the voyage doing all in her power to keep meals down.

In the far distance, illuminated by the soft glow of a sun rising through morning haze, lies their destination: an island covered in vibrant greenery and dotted by stately white edifices all facing a bustling harbor, in which the statue of a man kneels, pouring an endless stream of water from the pitcher balanced on one sculpted shoulder.

Sharlayan. The city of scholars.

Felcy’ra stares in the city’s direction, though his eyes are unfocused and unseeing. Perceiving something other than the ship’s rocking deck. Something that creases his brows and exposes one menacing fang.

“Fel?” she whispers, for once not worried that her last meal will make an appearance along with her words.

He blinks, the dark clouds upon his brow lightening as she crosses the creaking timbers on unsteady sea legs.

“How ya doin’, sprout? How’s ya brekky sittin’?”

“Well enough, seeing as I haven’t had any to begin with,” she quips.

Stel seizes his arm at the railing, desperate to remain on the ship in spite of a particularly large lurch of the deck and her belly.

A grin spreads across his own features at her pinched expression. Fel’s body adjusts to the ship’s movements as though he were born on the water. Additionally he’d evaded any and all symptoms of seasickness—much to Stel’s chagrin.

Not that she could stay upset with him.

Not when he’d been so gentle and conscientious of her needs since they’d left port: getting her fresh water or lighter fare, distracting her with bawdy jokes and wild tales, keeping the others from disturbing her rest with a deftness that surprised her.

“Glad ya feelin’ better, but ya a tad late developin’ ya sea legs to be honest. We’re almost to harbor and steady land.”

“Menphina is most merciful to the least of her children,” Stel replies, a wry twist to her lips.

“I’d pay a heap of good gil to see ya be what anyone migh’ consider least, sprout, an’ tha’s no lie.”

She opens her mouth to retort, but a sudden burst of spray soaks the fluttering hem of her red skirt, “Seven hells!”

Fel, dry of course, smirks at Alisaie, who has just now emerged from below deck to make an exaggerated stretch in the morning sunshine. The young woman smirks in kind—the pair of them are a menace indeed—and takes the rare opportunity to tease Stel, “Ah no. Nothing sadder than a wet cat.”

“Rude,” says Y’shtola, herding the rest of the Scions onto the deck ahead of her.

The arrival of their friends turns the topic to business, but the buzz of conversation around her is most comforting. So too is the warmth of Fel’s hand wrapped around hers and the faint stirring of her violet hair as he chuffs softly into her ear.

“What were you looking at earlier?” she murmurs, pitching her voice low so that only he could hear.

He shakes his head, shaggy ponytail swaying with the motion, and fixes his peridot eye on the others.

Very well. She would ask again later in private.

”You know there’s no need to tease G’raha like that,” she sighs.

A sharp bark of laughter rings loud in the cozy room. The air from his lungs chills the moistness where his hot mouth had been on her skin, raising goosebumps and drawing forth a shiver. “All the times to talk abou’ G’raha an’ this is when ya bring it up? Ya gone crazy?”

Fel grins, wicked, and presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh, just above the knee.

“You great beast; so what if I have? Who’s fault would that be?”

Again, a kiss, although higher this time—perhaps halfway to her hip. She reaches to grip a velvet ear in anticipation but he bats her hands away.

“Mine, o’ course, ‘cause I been teasing ya. Wasn’ teasing him though—just ya.”

Another kiss, but this one is not anywhere on her thigh.

Nor is it a kiss so much as it is a slow, deliberate drag of clever tongue across wildly sensitive parts, before closing his mouth over the prize to apply suction.

“Twelve preserve,” she breathes, seeing stars.

Tease indeed.

The pair of them were supposed to be resting, but several long days and nights spent at sea with zero privacy and…

Well…

There was very little sleeping going on.

“You were teasing him though.” Trying to put a sentence together while he amuses her is like digging a hole in the mud—as soon as two words link properly another pair slips apart.

“Nah. Wouldn’ dream of it,” he replies smoothly, with all the innocence of a kit with a hand in the cookie jar. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’ think of anything to tease him about—”

Stel laughs at the chuckle rumbling from his chest, “You putting your needy hands round my waist at every opportunity during Krile’s tour was not teasing?”

He props up on elbows and meets her gaze, the unruly flop of bang covering the golden eye he disliked—but she loved, “Nah. Didn’ want ya to fall off the pier or into any of the fountains. Ya was a little discombobulated maybe? What with all the blushing an’ gigglin’ ya were doin’.”

Her pulse rises in her pale cheeks, higher than it already was, “That was because you would kiss me every time Krile turned her back to us?!”

“Ya had some crumbs left from lunch on ya face. I was jus’ takin’ care of it for ya, like a gentleman.”

Incredulous, her mouth falls open, “Crumbs?!”

“Aye, crumbs.”

“Just because you are a horrible, evil man who can’t eat without a bib does not mean that I—” she begins, eyes twinkling.

Quick as a wink, Fel slithers up the length of her languid body to kiss her into silence. His skin is scented with the green wildness of deep forests and smeared in her own musky slick. She moans at the throb low in her belly, the blaze within growing brighter at every touch of his scarred hands.

He turns his head to taste the skin of her shoulder and whispers, “Crumbs.”

With rather more force than strictly necessary she manages to pin the laughing male keeper to the mattress, straddling him and ignoring the hot hardness pressed against her belly and mound.

“And the pinching? Was it absolutely critical for you to repeatedly squeeze my bottom out in public?”

“Aye, the future of Eorzea depends on it.” His grin is so wide she is quite sure she can see every one of his pure white teeth.

Not the answer she expected.

Fel continues, “‘Cause I don’ wanna save a world where G’raha ain’t spittin’ jealous of how I got ya all to myself.”

“So it was teasing?” she clarifies in mock seriousness.

He says nothing, only rubs his thumbs across the soft flesh of her ribs, tracing the curve of bone beneath. The smile fades and his eyes glitter, becoming sharp enough to cleave her open with just a glance.

“How cruel. I shall have to punish you.”

His eyes bore into her, “Aye.”

She wraps a hand around him and cocks her hips, rubbing her soft, sensitive nether lips against his throbbing length. Looking for all the world like a mad coeurl in heat.

”What did you see earlier? You never said.”

Her voice is muffled with both sleep and the pillow where she’s buried her head, but he reasons well enough what she’s asked.

“The lady of light,” he replies, drawing idle shapes over the beautiful curves of her naked back. “She said to seek light in darkness—that I was gonna be tested.”

She shifts to take in his face, gazing at him tenderly with eyes muzzy from sleep, “We’ll make it. We’re together.”

He nods, leaning down to press his mouth to the raised scar at her shoulder, “Aye.”

This thing between them was new and somewhat strange: at times delicate and fragile as spun glass; at other times as strong as forged adamantite. It was different from all the other times they’d tried to be together—some fundamental shift in attitudes and desires occurred somewhere along the line. Where exactly he couldn’t say, and he suspected that neither could she, but the fact of the matter was she gave him life, her daily presence brought a steady glow of joy to his soul. It felt right.

“Aye,” she echoes, raising herself on her elbows to kiss him softly, like the ephemeral brush of a morpho’s wings. “Now sleep before Krile charges in and beats us to death for not following her direction to rest.”

Sprawling next to her, he relaxes without even trying, able to drift off to the steady rhythm of her breathing close by. The lavender and myrrh scent of her skin perfumes his dreams.

]]> https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/voyage Wed, 08 Dec 2021 22:13:47 +0000 navigation https://mal-helasdottir.writeas.com/navigation?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[|| post type || series || genre || universe || ship || character || --- a id="posttype"/apost type: wordoftheday prompt drabble ffxivwrite2022 shitpost --- a id="series"/aseries: ffxiv wolshipewfic exlibris ffxivwrite2022 dnd threadsbetween --- a id="genre"/a genre: horror nsfw kindansfw fluff au --- a id="universe"/a universe: ffxiv worldunsundered prearr arr heavensward stormblood shadowbringers endwalker postmsq dnd eberron --- a id="ship"/a ship: felstel hythhades wolcred wolexarch wolgraha wolmagnai wolship wolzenos --- a id="character"/a character: ffxiv alisaie alphinaud ancients estinien exarch fel fray graha haurchefant magnai poppy rosie stelmaria thancred wol yotsuyu yshtola zenos dnd polly]]> || post type || series || genre || universe || ship || character ||

post type:

#wordoftheday #prompt #drabble #ffxivwrite2022 #shitpost

series:

#ffxiv

#dnd

genre:

#horror #nsfw #kindansfw #fluff #au

universe:

#ffxiv

#dnd

ship:

#felstel #hythhades #wolcred #wolexarch #wolgraha #wolmagnai #wolship #wolzenos

character:

#ffxiv

#dnd

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