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.

warnings: none

general: fluff-ass fluff in the ex libris au setting

noun

• a long printed story about imaginary characters and events

adjective

• new and original, not like anything seen before

Her numb hands shake, the leaden serpent in her gut shifting and twisting over on itself.

Stelmaria knits and unknits her fingers, alternating between staring out the window and watching the stub-tailed tabby Tisiphone arch luxuriously in a beam of bright sunlight.

If only she was a cat too, and not a miqo’te woman, then there would be no need for anxiety about someone else’s opinion.

G’raha turns the last page of the manuscript, setting it aside to rub a hand absently over Tizzy’s sun-warmed belly.

“Well?”

“Well,” he echoes, thoughtful.

The pause drags on long enough to take up not only a substantial physical presence but fully move in and owe one-third of this month’s rent.

“G’raha please don’t leave me hanging…” Thankfully only words come out when she speaks and not what she was expecting.

“To be honest, it’s great! Like, really good.” He smiles as the smoky seal-like shape of Megara jumps into his lap, mewling for attention, but it fades when he spots her white-knuckled grip and pale face. “Why so jittery? You’ve published novels before this.”

“Yes but never under my real name, and certainly not so… “

“Personal?”

“Yes.” She chews her lips. “You have no criticisms at all?”

He pets Meg for a moment before shifting on the couch. It’s enough to send her leaping off his legs and bustling down the hall, affronted. “The only thing that bothered me was how easily the heroine fell for the hero.”

Stelmaria looks like she might cry. “What?”

“He’s an oblivious goober and a bit of nerd,” he explains, ruby eyes sparkling. “Certainly not at all a character I identify with. In my opinion, she deserved better.” He joins her on the small loveseat; it’s a tight fit, but that’s the point.

Comprehension dawns, all the tension leaving her in one big exhale. She traps him between her thighs, settling herself in his lap in much the same way Meg had moments ago and coyly toys with the buttons on his shirt, grin spreading.

He spreads gentle fingers beneath the hem of her shirt, greedy for soft skin under his palms, squeezing her curves and teasing the lacy edge of her bra.

“He’s such a sweetheart though—smart, funny, and sexy. It just took a while for him to trust her. That’s believable, right?”

“I suppose so… He did get better, in his defense, but he’s still a fucking idiot,” he chuckles, tilting his face up to kiss her.

She obliges. “An idiot?”

“How could he look at her and not at least try to express himself? He couldn’t just say ‘Hey. You want to get dinner sometime? We could kill a bunch of monsters beforehand, eat, then come back to my place to fu—’”

Laughter cuts him off. “—What are you saying? He did ask her to dinner,” she wheezes.

“Anyway, he should have admitted he was into her from the beginning. Way easier.”

“Not as much fun though.”

“Hmmm. Not as true either, I guess. You did say it’s based on a true story.”

“It is,” she hums, nosing at a russet ear.

“I’d hate to meet this emotionally constipated dude with a sexy librarian fetish in real life, knowing he somehow met an actual sexy librarian who was super into him, and still managed to fuck it up royal,” he murmurs, sucking small red marks on every ilm of pale skin within reach.

“He must be dying of shame, wherever he is. Do you think he’d ever be confident enough to—” She finishes her sentence by whispering the absolute most depraved filth in his ear. Her words and the lilting tease in her voice sets him ablaze, just as she knew it would.

He grins wolfishly before picking her up and carrying her off, scattering snoozing house cats and almost tripping on the wrinkled edge of a rug.

warnings: toddlerfic?

general: toddlerfic

verb

• involuntarily open one's mouth wide and inhale deeply due to tiredness or boredom
• (of an opening or space) be very large and wide

noun

• a reflex act of opening one's mouth wide and inhaling deeply due to tiredness or boredom

Rosemary Molkot, aged 4, hated bedtime.

There were very few things Rosie hated more than bedtime.

Rosie cannot yet write anything besides scribblings, however if she was capable of such a feat her greatest hates list might look something like this:

THINGS ROSIE HATES

1. Medicine

2. Vegetables

3. Bathtime

4. Worms

5. Bedtime

6. The dark

Needless to say Wee Rosie did not care for her parents calling bedtime all willy-nilly, after just one single, tiny yawn.

Not even a yawn so much as commentary on the interminable banality of her modern existence. An existence laced with indignities such as—but by no means limited to—the aforementioned bedtime, a strict limit on the amount of ginger-cinnamon cookies she's allowed to consume in a day, and the time outs she must endure on the rare occasions she succumbs to temptation and chases ma's chickens into a frenzy.

A temptation she'd indulged in today, as a matter of fact.

The long, shuddering yawn was an act of protest against these injustices and should be treated as such, but her kind, ill-informed parents failed to grasp this nuance and sentenced her to bedtime.

How dare they just assume? When conclusive proof existed to show that not only was she not tired, she had never been tired, not once, in all her one thousand five hundred some odd days of life.

If only she could better resist the heaviness of her eyelids, the weakness in her limbs as da gently scoops her up from her ~~nest of blankets~~ fort by the fire and cradles her against his chest.

No doubt her inability to fight back is the result of some wicked magic of ma's; all the neighbors called her a witch and she never denied it, just laughed as she handed them sparkling bottles of sweet-smelling liquid to treat so-and-so's fever or to help their auntie's cousin's wife's niece three times removed’s milk flow freely after her baby came early.

Whatever that means.

Still, despite her parent's treachery she loved them and looping her short arms round da's neck is a surrender she accepts, even enjoys. She nuzzles close to the warmth emanating from his dusky skin and metal prosthetic alike.

“Not sleepy,” Rosie grunts.

“Aye? What ya think ma? Can she go another quarter bell or tuck 'er in ta bed?” Da looks at ma, dragging his chin over the silken fur of a tiny, tufted ear.

“Well I'm tired, certainly, and my poor chickens are exhausted. Regardless of what she says, seeing as the Princess Rosemary's servants and playmates are all succumbing to the sleep of the just, she may have no choice but to join them.”

“I love it when ya say a buncha stuff I don' understan'.”

“So you just love anything I say then?”

“Aye. 'An not just whatcha say neither.”

Rosie grumbles to herself, eyes squinched tightly against her parents' ridiculous wordplay. She's already surrendered to their impertinent demands, must this humiliation be dragged on further?

Da takes her to her room then deposits her between the sheets of her trundle bed, tucking her in, arranging her crowd of stuffed companions just so, and—after a whine from Rosie—switches on the small device he made for her. Soft orange light radiates from backside of the insect-shaped lamp, banishing the looming shadows from corners and ceiling.

”'Night, sweetroll,” murmurs da, sliding an errant lock of the small girl's shining ebony hair out of her eyes with gentle, artificial fingers.

Rosie is already fast asleep, one fang glinting as she dreams of chasing squawking chickens across the yard, unreprimanded.

post type:

#wordoftheday #prompt #drabble #ffxivwrite2022 #shitpost

series:

#ffxiv

• #wolshipewfic
• #exlibris
• #ffxivwrite2022

#dnd

• #threadsbetween

genre:

#horror #nsfw #kindansfw #fluff #au

universe:

#ffxiv

• #worldunsundered
• #prearr
• #arr
• #heavensward
• #stormblood
• #shadowbringers
• #endwalker
• #postmsq

#dnd

• #eberron

ship:

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

character:

#ffxiv

• #alisaie
• #alphinaud
• #ancients
• #estinien
• #exarch
• #fel
• #fray
• #graha
• #haurchefant
• #magnai
• #poppy
• #rosie
• #stelmaria
• #thancred
• #wol
• #yotsuyu
• #yshtola
• #zenos

#dnd

• #polly

“Then what happened?” Rosemary watches her da’s face in a state of rapt focus only attainable by the tiniest children.

“Well then ya’ ma said,” Felcy’ra’s voice rises into a breathy falsetto, a terrible imitation of his wife, “’Oh won’t some han’som hero save me from this terrible, disgusting chigoe?’ An’ then she gave a great swoon—”

“She what?!” Her ebony ears fly back in surprise, disbelieving eyes sliding across to Stelmaria, who works quite determinedly at her embroidery—head down and lips thin.

Rosie can’t imagine ma ever swooning.

Fel grins in unrepentant glee. “—Ya’ ma went swoonin’. Pay attention sweetroll, this is gettin’ to tha good bit.”

The small kit stifles giggles with her dove gray hands, amethyst eyes shining, “Aye, da.”

“So I come leapin’ into the clearin’, strong lance arm ready to bring down this foul beast—”

“What did it look like, da? The chigoe?”

Chigoe sometimes lived in the tree outside her bedroom window. Rosie could hear their gentle chittering on quiet nights before she drifted off to sleep, but she’d never seen one.

“Huge. Three or four yalms tall at least, giant slaverin’ mandibles click-clackin’ away thinkin’ of its’ next meal. To this day I’m deadly sure it meant to devour ya’ ma whole righ’ then an’ there—jus’ snatch her up all in one big gulp.”

Rosie, ever the appreciative audience, gasps. Good thing indeed that the ones in her tree couldn’t possibly be that big, or she might worry they planned to eat her too.

“So I come leapin’ over the hedge, then manage to jump up on one log, then over to another—up an’ up an’ up until—”

“Until?”

“I snap on my lucky goggles,” he demonstrates, ”an’ I come down off the bough like the wrath o’ the Twelve. Jumpin’ wi’ all my might—an’ ya know ya’ da, wee Rosie, I got a lot o’ might. The wind was whistlin’ in my ears an’ sending my hair all flyin’ any which way. I tell ya I was very glad I had my goggles for protection.”

Rosie’s da only takes his blue-lensed goggles off to sleep and take baths. She’s allowed to wear them herself for a single bell on her nameday, to make the next twelve moons happy ones.

They are that lucky.

“Anyway, the point o’ my lance pierces right through the monster’s crispy shell an’ brain an’ deep into tha dirt. All twenty of it’s long, spindly legs go twitchin’ an’ flailin’ as it dies, an’ so I twisted my lance jus’ ta be sure it was dead.”

“Was it dead?”

“Aye. An’ I was so lightnin’ fast I managed to kill it stone dead an’ catch ya’ ma ‘afore she hit the ground.”

“Ma fell!?” The little girl’s mouth hangs open, eyebrows almost hidden under her sweep of jet black hair.

“She caught a swoon, Rosie, remember?”

Rosie may be just six summers old but she’s learning that her da sometimes fibs in his stories. She loves them though, and loves her da and ma, so she lets da think that she believes him, even when she doesn’t.

Besides, if he goes too far ma will stop him, like always.

“An’ there I was: covered in sticky, green gore, hair a right mess, my lance stuck in a dead chigoe, and with the most beautiful miqo I’d ever laid eyes on laying helpless in my arms. All well an’ good—‘cept she was out cold.”

“No!”

Ma knocked out? He is definitely telling tales.

“Aye. So I kissed her to wake her up.”

“Like in the stories?”

Da puts his broad hand over his heart and assumes an earnest expression. Pity it’s completely ruined by the quirk at the corner of his mouth.

A rustle of skirts before ma’s clipped tones ring out, “—That’s enough nonsense for tonight, I think. Time for kits to trot away to bed.”

She rises from her rocking chair and tidies away her things, making ready to take Rosie to her room for bedtime.

“But ma—,” whines Rosie.

“But Stel—,” whines da.

“No buts. Bed.”

With a petulant grunt, Rosie pads down the hall ahead of her ma, tail hung low.

Da clears his incomprehensible metal thingamajigs into a basket he keeps by his chair. All traces of his former protest have vanished, replaced with his usual fanged smirk.

“I don’t swoon. I’ve never swooned,” quips Stel, without heat.

“I beg ta differ. I could make ya swoon right now if I wanted,” murmurs Fel, wrapping his wife in his arms and chuffing warmly into her ear. He traces the shape of her jaw with one scarred thumb, calluses rasping on her smooth skin, before pressing his lips softly against her carmine mouth.

She smiles against his kiss. “Hush.”