estinien — mare lamentorum

day fourteen attrition

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

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

warnings: none, unless you have issues with shitposting

general: the ex libris gang plays in-universe dnd

noun

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

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

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

The twins are fighting again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zenos laughs. “Nice.”

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

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

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

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

“Wha—?!“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

day one cross

Fri, 02 Sep 2022 02:53:17 +0000

#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #heavensward #estinien #stelmaria #fray #warning #spoilers

warnings: murder by knife, descriptions of stabbing, blood, brief mention of torture (fingers), grief, revenge

general: fray takes the wheel, is that a motherfucking telltale heart reference?, 3.0 spoilers

noun

A mark, object, or figure formed by two short intersecting lines or pieces

verb

Go or extend across or to the other side of (a path, road, stretch of water, or area)

adjective

Annoyed.

She crosses the wide, glittering expanse as the forms of Thordan and his knights return to their original proportions. Her swift stride carries her to the far end where the Archbishop, still in his finery, crawls upon his belly like a wounded hound, keening, “Who are you? What are you?”

Estinien stops to catch his breath, watching the Warrior with curiosity, relief, and elation at discovering the battle already won and the Warrior alive and well.

Then Stelmaria speaks and every syllable buries a sliver of cold fear deep within his brain, “Retribution, your Holiness.”

Quick as the spark consumes tinder she falls to one knee and draws an unseen dagger, dark as swirling shadow save the keenly silvered edge.

It winks at him as he tries fruitlessly to goad his exhausted body into a sprint.

Her knife parts flesh, slipping neatly between ribs with nary a squeak of steel on bone. She leans, whispering into Thordan’s gnarled ear, the old man's face twisting into a hideous grimace of fear. His wide, dimming eyes slide to hers and remain, fixed, until he shudders and grows still.

The knife retreats. A torrent of steaming wet red flows to the gleaming floor, worming its way into the folds of her clothes, bold crimson smearing across her face and hands—a sharp contrast against her moon pale skin.

She rises, uncaring of her state and oblivious to his presence, then stalks toward the crumpled figure of Ser Zephirin, who scrabbles desperately at the smooth floor, trying to skitter away like a trapped rat.

Estinien steps to block her, seizing a thin wrist. “Warrior?”

An unfamiliar laugh rasps from her throat, an utterly alien sound unlike any he's heard before. “Leave us to our reward Azure Dragoon, and we shall leave you to yours in turn,” She says, turning to face him.

His mind reels in horror at this waif of a miqo'te.

Though her form is unchanged, it is most certainly not Stelmaria.

In place of the Warrior of Light is a creature wrought of hardened steel and burning coals, eyes bright and mouth aflame as if all hells' legions dwell deep within. She twists in his grasp, moving as though her flesh has separated from sinew and bone, turning the tables by wrapping her thin fingers around his forearm. The scales of his armor grind against each other like the screeching of a thousand, thousand demons.

The Azure Dragoon has faced countless wyrms in his time, emerging triumphant again and again, but now he fails against the cold sweat trickling beneath his elegant mail. “You know as well as I this is not the way, woman. The dead are gone. They do not grieve. An eye for an eye achieves naught but the death of the soul, a wound that cannot be closed.”

Again she laughs without mirth. He must bite down lest his teeth rattle loose from his jaw.

“We care not for our soul, ser; we seek justice for those condemned to silence... or worse. These liars, swindlers, and hypocrites cannot leave this place with their throats uncut.” She smiles but it’s strange and feral, all fangs and too much tongue, then sidles closer, as though imparting a great secret. Her breath tickles his cheek, her tone is sweet as birch syrup, but she reeks of clotting blood. “You would deny us the satisfaction of a foe dispatched? A true debt repaid in kind? How noble to share this sentiment with us when your own nemesis was unceremoniously cast down moons ago... Or so you believe.”

The demon's languid gaze flicks to the eyes of Nidhogg, discarded and brooding far across the room's expanse.

They call to him, even now.

A reverberation inside his skull forces him to close his eyes and swallow. He masters the urge to look again.

She continues, a virulent whisper spreading tendrils in every corner of his mind, “We know what we are about Estinien Varlineau. We are in control. Can you say the same?”

Those damnable eyes.

The great wyrm lies slain. The war is won.

Yet still they call his name in the soft velvet purr of a lover.

So long as they exist, Nidhogg lives.

Unable to resist he drops her arm and hurries toward the eyes, deaf to his ringing footsteps. The mad, feverish peals of her laughter go unnoticed. Any anger he feels at her assessment of his weakness is lost in a frantic need.

All he sees, all he knows is the eyes.

He bends to grasp them just as Ser Zephirin begins to scream in pain, the knife relieving him of his fingers one by one.

In an instant, Estinien shatters beneath the wave of Nidhogg’s overwhelming rage, a lone cork bobbing upon an eternal expanse of roiling seas.

When he claws back from the edge of nonexistence, some moments or eons later, the screaming has stopped.

There she is.

The silent Warrior, bow strung across her back, the knife shining like a crescent moon in her slim hand, her expression inscrutable beneath the streaks of blood. Rosy gold glints upon her third finger, spattered with scarlet ichor once more. He recalls seeing it smeared with Haurchefant's blood before, her hands soaked in it as he breathed his last.

The irony.

Next is the great Midgardsormr, unafraid of the monster beside him. He speaks softly, the Draconic weighted down by the millennia of grief he carries for this wayward child. Me, in a manner of speaking, muses Estinien, dimly aware of his predicament.

At their feet lie a pile of thirteen corpses, mouths and throats gaping wide as fresh caught fish, the pure white of their raiments gone red, sullied with gore.