idealistsinc

[idealistsinc]

There is something so beautiful about reaching out to the monstrous with intent to touch it gently. To risk the sharp teeth and the lethal claws, to defy fear and revulsion, and choose to be delicate with something that can be, and often is, incredibly brutal.

#ffxiv charlotte leroux #ffxiv vhox tia #somebody get thancred out of the tiger exhibit

[idealistsinc]

FFXIVWRITE2021 - PROMPT #15: Thunderous

previous post here

It came first like a rumble, then a full-fledged tremor of mirth shaking the very air through which it moved like willows in the wind. No surprise that he, too, shook when the joy burst from his heart, not with a laugh like that. And all his teeth shone like the stars behind the stormclouds, a flash of light before the sound, deep and pure, erupted from his throat. Oh, what joy his joy brought to her, and the others who encircled him. Like the brightness of the sun, severe though it could be, flaring in a dance of absolute bliss amid the planets in its orbit.

#other writing #reblogs #short but sweet #i like these descriptions uwu

[idealistsinc]

#17 - Destruct

Z'shakka the ex-nunh had garnered two decades worth of experience when it came to trials and challenges - alas, even that hadn’t been enough to prepare him for the carnage that lied ahead of him.

Not the kind that involved fluffy, white stuffing and cloth, along with a pair of tear-filled eyes that pierced straight into his soul.

“…How?”

The Seeker uttered a single word after a heavy, awkwardly long silence, eyes settled onto the stuffed Dodo toy and its pitiful, mostly decapitated state. As always, his youngest kept his timid silence between the quiet sniffles, but the teary eyes turned away, to accusingly glance towards the girl peeking suspiciously behind the corner. If not for the trembling lip, the son’s frown might’ve been as mighty as his fathers.

“N…’s wasn’t m—‘E didn’t let me play with it!”

And, as always, Z'shakka’s eldest was quick to crumble under her father’s stern eyes. She had always been hot-tempered, the kind that often lead into destruction of some kind - but at least she was quick to be honest about her mistakes. Even if they were caused by siblings’ bickering.

Alas, it didn’t make the victim of such a fight any less headless, and Z'naqi any less distraught by his lost plushy companion. And, even when he had some pride of his cooking skills, Z'shakka had no skills in sewing, big clumsy fingers unable to heal a toy-bird’s neck.

“…Naqi. Remember the kind lady who made you feel better? Let’s see if she can heal Mister Dodo as well.”

Perhaps it would be a bother for the good doctor to use her healing hands for something simple as this, but for the moment, the little boy’s widened, sparkling eyes were worth the trouble Z'shakka might cause for the woman.

#other writing #awwwh #this is so cute #reblogs

[idealistsinc]

prompt 14!!!!! took a little while but i felt very suddenly inspired taking another look at the archaic definition of today's prompt. :')

5.3 (but probably only spoilers up to post-heavensward), 820 words

------------------------

commend

/kəˈmend/

verb

3. entrust someone or something to.

"I—I beg your pardon?"

"Did I stutter, girl? Go! Take him and be out from underfoot!"

L'aiha jumped a little; ever was she easy to startle with Master Matoya's harsh words, despite years now of practice. She simply was not as thick-skinned as Y'shtola, and though Matoya took mercy on her, it only lasted as long as her patience.

The Seeker looked from her to the gentleman beside her. L'aiha didn't know how else to describe the polite, proper toad in front of her, standing on two legs and further supporting his weight with a small, gnarled staff. Every minute or so, his slightly-too-big wizard hat needed adjustment so as to not fall over his face.

"I..." L'aiha still didn't know what to say. She feebly asked Matoya, "A-are you sure? I would not want to take away from your, ah—your staff."

She glanced at the other enchanted amphibians around Matoya's cavernous study. Matoya shook a hand, grumbling. "Neither would I. Twas why I set about creating a new poroggo for this occasion."

"He—he is specially enchanted for me?" L'aiha balked.

"He is right here, you know," Matoya said. "Talking about him as if he were a common toad. Show some respect."

"Oh—" It was obviously the case, yet L'aiha found herself mortified. She promptly bowed to the bipedal amphibian. "F-forgive me my rudeness, Master...?"

"Oh no," the poroggo croaked urgently. "No, no, no! Please, I am but a humble toad and servant. No 'master' required. My name is Froddo."

Froddo bowed in turn, steep and proper—at least until his hat fell off his smooth little head. "Ribbit!" He hurriedly picked it back up.

"I-I still do not understand," L'aiha said, looking at Matoya again. "Wh... Why have you gone to such trouble?"

"As if I would just sit here, letting you bring me fresh produce every week since you bought that heap of stone in Idyllshire, and not do something." Matoya harrumphed, indignant. "Nay. I have been counting the favors, until such a time as they exceeded the number of egregious, out-of-touch chores you and Shtola and the rest of your Scions have foisted upon me over the years.

"And that day has come." She tapped her cane on the planked floor decorating her study area. "I will not let it be said that I am some joyless leech! I can take care of myself. Your kindness is irritating."

"Oh." L'aiha's ears flattened a little. "Um, I'm sorry—"

"Tis irritating because I will not suffer to be indebted!" Another tap of her cane. "So take the toad, godsdamn you girl, that I might get some easy sleep tonight."

She was always brash in tone, that Matoya, but L'aiha was starting to recognize the 'thank-you' for what it was. She looked at Froddo again, and knelt to better examine him. Froddo straightened even more.

"Very well," L'aiha said. "It would be nice to have some company back in Idyllshire... How do you feel about helping me upkeep a small residence, Master Froddo?"

"Ribbit!" Froddo gasped. "Please, my lady, the 'master' is unnecessary!"

"It would feel much too rude to simply call you by name," L'aiha insisted, smiling. Matoya discreetly rolled her eyes. "Perhaps 'Mister Froddo', then? I would express at least an onze of respect to so wondrous a specimen of Master Matoya's."

Froddo seemed to turn a little—greener? Bluer?—in the face. He cleared his throat, which resulted in a rapid succession of bubbling motions in his neck, and perched his staff in front of him to lean a bit on it, deep in thought.

"You are most kind, Master L'aiha," the poroggo said. He nodded, and then fixed his hat. "Very well! If it pleases you, call me by any title you wish! Ribbit."

L'aiha smiled brighter. She looked up at Matoya. "Thank you, Master. But tell me true: Is this really all about fruits and vegetables? Not that I disbelieve you, I only mean..."

Matoya sighed as if the prodding had aged her ten years. "I have my reasons—and they are mine to know and yours to keep your claws away from!"

L'aiha jumped a little, then rose to bow again. "U-understood. Forgive me."

"Begone already," Matoya said, waving her hand and turning to her library.

L'aiha nodded, and she and Froddo hurried toward the mouth of the cave. Just as they'd nearly cleared the turn though, Matoya called back to them.

"And tell that ungrateful cat to properly introduce me to her special someone next time!" she said.

"S-special someone?" L'aiha asked, slow to catch on.

She found her answer in Matoya's shite-eating grin though, and feeling a burst of fluster to the tips of her ears, turned to leave as quickly as possible. Matoya's chortling followed her all the way into the midday sun.

Froddo hopped after her, tilting his head and then catching his slipping hat. "Master L'aiha? Are you all right?"

"Matoya knows," L'aiha muttered in staggered disbelief. She groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Shtola is going to kill me."

#other writing #reblogs #this is so cute ;__;

[idealistsinc]

21 // feckless

adj. ineffective; incompetent; futile wc: 573

“He’s not here, is he.”

Tahla doesn’t answer at first, bewildered by the nigh-hallucinatory presence of her brother in the tattered records tent. After half a decade, Rin at last emerged from his sanctum to come, of all places, to a battlefield teetering on the knife-edge of ruin — he’s as incongruous as a porcelain teacup in the swill and slough of the Fringes. But she can’t ignore the strange, ill resignation on his face, as though to have it confirmed is to be sentenced to a punishment he cannot endure. “No. He left a sennight ago for Garlemald.” She touches his shoulder, disconcerted that she has to look up rather than down. The frame beneath her hand is more frail than she expected. “You’ve traveled far. Won’t you pull up a chair?”

Rin shrugs her away and looks around at the disorganized slurry of military bureaucracy that has flooded her tent. The chair, Tahla realizes belatedly, is inaccessible for the twenty-ponz logbooks that have taken up residence and made themselves comfortable. “I don’t see why. I would only be in your way.”

He isn’t wrong. Nevertheless... “It was brave of you to come.”

“It was foolish.”

Maybe. She’s not practiced in debating the finer points of idealism versus pragmatism; she had been largely absent from the ideological warfare Rin used to wage with Nhali. But it speaks to a part of her brother Tahla didn’t know was there — a part that could be stirred to action for the sake of a family she thought he loathed. For all that he severed their bonds over the years, he cared enough for Isha’a to leave his haven for him. “If I hear any news, I can write to Sharlayan —”

“I’m not going back to Sharlayan,” says Rin.

Tahla startles, her stomach sinking at the flat, expressionless sound of Rin’s voice. Of all the things he might have said, it is the last thing she expected. “Oh. What will you do instead?”

He stares blankly. The dim light in the tent makes his eyes look black and bottomless. She feels a sudden urge to keep talking like a cold, iron prod digging into small of her back. “The Shroud is just a stone’s throw away. Mama would have you.”

“No.” That expression she can interpret — a frissure of pain.

“Or — well, there’s the alchemist. He doesn’t have an assistant with Isha’a away. Perhaps he could use the help.”

Pale lips press into a fine line. “Perhaps,” he manages at length. “I expect he would find my efforts something of a disappointment.” He sweeps his satchel onto his shoulder, at once hurried. “Thank you for the assistance. I shouldn’t stay.”

“Rin,” says Tahla. When he pauses, habitually polite, Tahla tugs him into a hug. 

He freezes. His arms hang limp at his sides a moment, a lifeless marionette with its strings cut, and then she feels a tentative touch, as though if he dares more she will break — or he will. “It’s good to see you. I know these are terrible circumstances for a reunion, but — stay a while, please. I’d love to have a conversation that isn’t about the Castrum.”

There is a long silence. He swallows, a slight tremor in his hands. She thinks suddenly that something has happened, but whatever it might have been, he doesn’t admit to it — only says, uneasy and uncertain,

“Very well.”

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv rin weise #my writing

[idealistsinc]

You had a dream last night. 

Keep reading

#other writing #reblogs #drowning them out like rats is going to live in my head for the next little while

[idealistsinc]

20 // petrichor

n. a distinctive scent, usually described as earthy, pleasant, or sweet, produced by rainfall on very dry ground. wc: 188

The sun-cleaved earth guzzles rain. The topsoil she sifts through her fingers is already as light and dry as powder, but in Thanalan, even the briefest storm bears fruit. She crouches to touch the dewy leaves of the small, pink flowers peeking from beneath a knotted shrub.

"Is this what you're looking for?"

Next to her, Isha'a's tail stirs the dust. "No. Saffron has red stamen -- the bits in the middle of the petals." He gently bends a stem between his fingers, thoughtful. "Pretty, though, aren't they?"

All the life in Thanalan seems to hold its breath in anticipation for a cloud's blessing, waiting. It reminds her of the Steppe, blooms that struggled up between stone crevasses or crouched low against bellowing winds. Survivors like her. "I like them."

His ears twitch. Then, he snaps a flower at the base of its stem, reaching delicately to tuck it into the thick sheath of her hair. "There," he says. "Doubly pretty!"

She's more like a rugged weed than a flower. Nevertheless, his attention is as soothing as a morning mist. She adjusts the stem behind her horn and smiles.

#ffxivwrite2021 #i was straight up ready to quit ffxiv write over this prompt #my muse was like 'no' but i hit it with a newspaper repeatedly until it gave me words #by no means my best work but it exists #ffxiv isha'a molkoh #ffxiv cheyesugen oryokuln #my writing

[idealistsinc]

DAY 7: SPECULATE

If I crawled out from the dirt of my own tomb: what then?

If I stood on the edge of a sea-beaten cliff just to feel the salt spray on my skin: what then?

To feel anything besides the fire, or the ash—the way it clings to my hair and the clothes my father buried me in—or the rot that is fated to become of me; to know freedom by my open eyes and my cold hands. To know him by the sellsword’s coat he left behind on the clothesline, even if the smell of him has been overtaken (like moss atop an undisturbed grave) by wind and smoke.

To trace a finger over the soft bumps of the embroidery thread I used to mend his ripped cuff, and to maybe even say: here is where I put a bit of myself on his sleeve, so that he would always have some of me to touch on his heart. I was nearly as skilled with a needle as I was with a sword.

If I walked halfway across the world I once knew, like he walked halfway across broken earth to find me a home, and I found what is left of him: what then?

If I got to hear my name in his mouth, even if only for the last time—mine or his, it does not matter; only the shape he made of Steorra like I was not just one star in the sky but all of them—: what then?

(Then Ala Mhigo would not be free)

(It would always be too late: too late to stop his hand, too late to stop his heart from opening great and wide and empty for something that cannot fill it)

(The story exists only if I am buried in it)

#other writing #tHIS STORY EXISTS ONLY IF I AM BURIED IN IT #i am slain #i don't know the context or the character but who needs context #raw af #reblogs

[idealistsinc]

18 // devil’s advocate

n. a person who advocates an opposing or unpopular cause for the sake of argument or to expose it to a thorough examination. wc: 462

After a while, Isha’to said, “That could have gone better.”

Isha’a pushed his face into his pillow and bit down on a miserable, pathetic sound. Maybe. Or maybe Isha’a was a fool to think any discussion with their father would be anything other than an exercise in futility, like trying to penetrate a palisade armed with a spoon and a broken mortar pick — a fool to think Isha’to might defend him, barricaded as he had been behind their father’s desk. For all Isha’a strained to hear a solitary chord of sympathy, Isha’to’s voice was as warm as the dry rattle of autumn leaves. Nevertheless, it was the only invitation Isha’a had received to talk to Isha’to about their father in moons. His idiot heart leapt at the chance.

“He wasn’t listening,” said Isha’a. “No matter how many times I try to explain it to him, he doesn’t hear anything I have to say. It’s like—he’s already made up his mind, so why pay attention to what I think?”

“He wasn’t listening because you don’t have an argument.”

Isha’a’s stomach wrenched. It was all he could do to keep his breathing steady. “What do you mean?”

“You always talk about what you want. Wanting is not an argument, and saying you’d like to help people is not a plan. If you were to make it as far as Doma, how do you expect to enter the country under Garlean occupation? What service could you possibly provide that the native people couldn’t procure on their own? You have no particular aptitude for healing, and certainly not for warmongering.”

The absolute last thing in the world Isha’a wanted was to have his motives cross-examined and dissected under a microscope, again. “I don’t have the details worked out yet,” he mumbled. “If he’d even entertain the idea to start with—”

Then maybe you both could help me.

But Isha’to said, wedging a knife under Isha’a’s ribs, “What reason have you given for him to entertain it?”

Too much to hope for that either of them would support him. Too naive to think that Isha’to might ask him why instead of how, that any of this conversation was not intended to discourage him further until he gave the whole thing up. Tears stung the back of his throat. He couldn’t muster an answer, long enough that Isha’to sighed. “I’m sorry to play devil’s advocate. But if you have nothing concrete to offer Father, he won’t take your position seriously.”

Maybe Isha’to sincerely thought he was giving advice. But Isha’a knew that, unless he somehow proved himself, scraped up evidence, wrote up a damn spreadsheet to quantify what had always been his most dearly-held dream, what Isha’to was really saying was: I don’t take you seriously, either. 

isha’a belongs to @mimiorzea

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv isha'a molkoh #ffxiv rin weise #my writing #rin was (and is) the kind of person who plays devil's advocate at the expense of people's feelings #he is probably genuinely trying to help #which would work better if he wasn't such a sanctimonious shit about it #as always #he gets better

[idealistsinc]

#7: Speculate

Dictation: At the most recent instance of my lecture series, a gentleman – of Gridania, I assume, considering his bucolic affect – accused me of ‘broad speculation’ in the construction of my theories on nervous response to stress. Speculation, from the Ilsabardian root spekio, is a cousin of the modern High Garlean speculum, referring to a mirror. Studies recently conducted on the commonly observed similarities between our own Eorzean common tongue and those dialects of Ilsabard have revealed archaic borrowing on both sides, indicative either of trade, conquest, or cross migration.

Keep reading

#other writing #i feel like i'm reading someone's thesis #in a good way #i knew it would be my aesthetic when the first paragraph was full of lore-appropriate etymology #reblogs

[idealistsinc]

#ffxiv cheyesugen oryokuln #reblogs #oh what a mood #i'd like to say she gets better but it takes a stupidly long time

[idealistsinc]

17 // destruct

n. the act or process of intentional destruction wc: 357 content warning: serious injury and descriptions thereof

She was lowered to unyielding steel. Shadows drifted above her, faint compared to the immolating flames that still burst behind her eyes; they hummed and muttered somewhere beneath the sustained, screaming note in her horns as brutal hands pulled her armor apart. It felt like her flesh peeled with it, crusted to the underside of her mail. She dragged a scalding breath into her lungs and clenched her consciousness in a white-knuckled grip.

"—armor took the brunt of it—"

"—mail melded to the—try to cut it off her—"

"Cheye," said a small voice. A butterfly touch in her hair, something soft beneath her skull. "Don't try to look. Lie still—good. You're so good. I'm right here."

She hacked iron moisture into her mouth. "You..."

"Shh. Tell me later, okay?"

In the distance: "—shrapnel in her shoulder—"

"Sidurgu?"

"My arm has a bullet through."

A weighted silence. In her horns, the mecha's exoskeleton shrieked with the rapid expansion, rupturing like a carcass left too long in the sun.

"I can do it," said Khaizo.

"Pliers?"

"At camp."

"Take my knife. Is she conscious?"

A chirrup by her head again. "Yes."

"Give her this." Something flat was gently worked into her mouth between her molars. Salt and leather—a belt, maybe. Her tongue thudded against it. "On three."

A breath before the precipice. Yesugen promised herself that she would not scream. She would sooner choke to death on the gods-damned belt than scream, than rend their hearts to beating shreds like that.

But her body chose for her. Something sharp sheared her skin, burrowed deep into bone with a lightning arc of agony, and she bit down hard enough to grind her teeth to dust, a glottal wail gutting her throat. Somewhere, she heard a name. Then, thick, murky water churned over her head, silt raw in open wounds. She gurgled, tried to struggle.

"I'm sorry." A whisper, now, fingers at her cheek. It sounded as if he was crying. "You're all right, I'm sorry. Just try to hold still."

Elsewhere, a heavy breath, the clink of steel against the grate. Rough: "Next one."

Yesugen closed her eyes.

khaizo & isha’a belong to @mimiorzea

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv cheyesugen oryokuln #ffxiv khaizo erebos #ffxiv isha'a molkoh #with tiny mention of #sidurgu orl #my writing #whee phone writing #i tried

[idealistsinc]

16 // crane

n.  any large wading bird of the family Gruidae, characterized by long legs, bill, and neck and an elevated hind toe wc: 717

"It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?”

Summer had at last bloomed in Tailfeather—which was to say, the air still nipped like the first gasp of spring. Despite the chill, she wore a dress that bared her shoulders, hand-embroidered with a delicate pattern of small, yellow flowers. Khaizo kept his eyes firmly on the purple shadows cast by the caelumtrees and the peeking buds scattered among the stout, gnarled shrubbery, resisting the pull of a habitual, easy melancholy. “Mm.”

“What a refreshing breeze. I don’t blame you for escaping outside—I never imagined so many people would come.” A laugh. “It’s like a furnace in there. I haven’t felt so overwarm for years.”

The people of Tailfeather had little cause to celebrate before, pinned between the Dravanian horde and a inhospitable wall of Coerthan ice, struggling to scratch out something resembling a life beyond Ishgard’s oppressive aegis. But with the war ended, more Ishgardians had made the pilgrimage to the edge of Dravanian lands in the name of a peace as tentative as the season. The pessimist in Khaizo waited with bated breath for the collapse. After centuries of festering wounds and frothing blood feuds, that the war could truly be over seemed a stroke of fortune just short of a divine miracle. Too good to be true.

“They needed it,” said Khaizo.

“I think so, too.” Liloie stood quietly a moment in a silence so rare that he glanced her way in spite of himself. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth in the hall, and a soft smile crinkled the lines by her eyes. “I know this isn’t your sort of event, dear. I appreciate that you came. If you don’t want to stay—”

“No, I’ll stay.” He cleared his throat, diligently ignoring the heat that threatened to rise into his face. “I’m...”

Her smile widened. “Khenbish, are you admitting to having fun? At a party? I may faint dead away.”

Fun was perhaps too strong of a word. But this hall was hers. He saw her care in every flourishing flower, in the energy of the musicians she’d rustled up from among the hunters’ ranks. Leaning against the wall, watching the frenetic swirl of celebrants, Liloie in their center like a polestar, he had felt nearly as he had a decade ago in that tiny cottage kitchen: something a little too close to hopeful.

He had wished her happiness before he left—had imagined its shape during his darkest moments in torturous detail. Perhaps a marriage repaired, ensconced again behind stone walls Khaizo would never cross (so he thought), again held aloft above the grassroots community her presence once nourished. But that had been a petty jealousy and a cruel disservice to the woman he knew. When she danced tonight in the hall, unburdened and unfettered, with wide, graceful sweeps of her arms like wings, he saw in her the joy he had dreamed of welling not from marriage, not from him, but from something she had built for herself and herself alone.

After everything, his own happiness was too much to hope for. Better that she found it far away from him. 

But he still...

“You organized this well.” Compliments never came easily to Khaizo; he stared stubbornly over her head, the words like rocks in his mouth. “And your dancing was...nice.”

He heard her amusement mingling with genuine pleasure in her voice. “Thank you. I used to dance when I was a girl—it’s been a long time. You know, I wonder if I can still...” Liloie took a deep breath, rocking on her heels, and then rose carefully on her toes: chin lifted, spine fluid, her neck long and elegant, as poised as a crane in the heartbeat before the flight. It was—impressive. Khaizo chose not to acknowledge any other thoughts he may have had. “Well! For forty-five, I’m not in such terrible shape as I thought—”

Her ankle buckled, and she tumbled forward, with spectacular providence, into Khaizo’s arms. 

No, the universe never relinquished anything for free. But as Liloie laughed away her fluster, brushing imaginary lint from his chest with a flurried touch (”Oh my goodness! I’m sorry, darling—I suppose I won’t be a prima ballerina any time soon.”), Khaizo felt that perhaps contentment, if not joy, was a dream within his reach.

uwu dragon man belongs to @mimiorzea

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv liloie de glynemont #ffxiv khaizo erebos #my writing #now it's their turn for silly fluff #wiki says that the dance of a crane symbolizes celebration and joy #so that's how this relates to the prompt #i'm so weak for ray of sunshine/sad and tortured ship dynamics

[idealistsinc]

VII. speculate

“…oh. Hmm. I haven’t thought about it in awhile. Not that I don’t like a good book— I like any story someone has to tell. It’s just I haven’t had the time to sit down and take one in. I’ve been busy and you sort of have to have the mind for it, right? It’s far different than listenin’ to someone sing a tale or tell you what they saw. And to be honest, after all these reports I’ve gotta get myself through, it’s difficult findin’ myself wantin’ to read some more. 

I was a luckier child than most to grow up with access to a library and those willin’ to— remind me of my letters, I think. But my favorite book in that whole place was this little thin thing: had a brown cover with lil’ lovely yellow trimmin’ on the borders and the spine. It made it stand out when it was set on the shelf, and likely why I picked it out in the first place. But you had to be careful with it, I remember the second page bein’ real fragile for some reason. You had to be sure not to tear it.

It was a story about a girl and her dog in some far off village set in… augh, I think it was someplace between Thanalan and the Black Shroud? One of the charmin’ bits was it was set out on the border in the middle of seemingly nowhere, so whenever someone visited it was always an adventure. Near the end of the book she started havin’ feelings for the merchant’s son, which was endearin’, but there was a cliff hanger in the end ‘cause her best friend— the, uh, the dog— went missin’. I was devastated, ‘cause the library didn’t have the sequel. Which made sense, it wasn’t a library meant for keepin’ tales like that, it held more important things, but not knowin’ what happened to the dog ate at me, and I wouldn’t stop thinkin’ about it some nights. 

In times like that you just got to make things up, right? I figure in the end, she’d find her dog waitin’ for her by the creek where she first met the merchant’s son and realize that chasin’ her dreams is a worthy pursuit after all. She’d go off and marry him, move into the city like she wanted to and get another dog to give her friend some more company in her old age, and get all the dresses she’d find herself wantin’ when she saw all the other ladies. She’d meet her father, too, I think it was. Or somethin’. I don’t know, that detail wasn’t really brought up again, I don’t know where the author was goin’ with that. Not that they need to, I guess.

…the title? Oh, no… I don’t remember… let me think…”

#other writing #reblogs #i really like the strong sense of voice i get from this character #and the description of the book is so charming ;w;

[idealistsinc]

13: made manifest

Prompt: Oneirophrenia

Word count: 1230

Her grasp on her soul has always been tenuous, even at the best of times, so it’s no surprise that it starts to slip when she’s dying. Or: if there’s any idiot who would still wall-pull while undergoing light corruption-induced organ failure, it’s probably Hanami.

(Gonna slap a tentative content warning on this one for Shadowbringers-typical levels of body horror re: sin eaters and light corruption.)

Idly, Hanami scraped her fingertips across the rough stone of the ground. Hard to tell if the white lines spiderwebbing across her gauntlets were frost or something worse, in the flickering lights from the falling stars. Or if they were real. Maybe just her imagination. Maybe the stars were all in her head, too. It didn’t seem right, for the sky to be collapsing underneath the ocean.

A voice, muffled. She had to strain to hear it over the sound of crackling glass in her horns. “Up you get, lazybones.” Genial, a strong hand under each of her arms, tugging her back to her knees. “No dozing off here. Ryne, a moment, please.”

Was she sleeping? She didn’t think so. Hadn’t slept in—a while. Days, maybe. If she stopped thinking about breathing she started to choke on glowing ichor. Sometimes she could only close her eyes and think about keeping her skin from splitting apart. Hard. Her thoughts slid out of her grip like wet marble.

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#other writing #reblogs #these dESCRIPTIONS #really like the presentation of light poisoning here and how it screws up hanami's eyes #just good stuff all around

[idealistsinc]

15 // thunderous

adj. resembling thunder; threatening wc: 253

Did you know yol fly away from storms?

Songbirds won’t. They’re small enough to fit under boughs and in crevasses on the scarps; they’ll weather a bad rain. But it doesn’t cost a yol much to fly ten malms out of the way to avoid them. I remember one summer we had such a fierce thunderstorm that, when it was over, only half our flock came back, all wet and bedraggled. We spent the next three suns scouring the mountains for the stragglers and bribing them with dzo chucks. 

I don’t know if you had storms like that so far north. They were rare but fierce in the Crescent. Nhaama help you if your frame was weak or your knots were loose on your yurt — carelessness was a good way to lose your canvas down in the gorge. Up on the peaks, I saw them coming in sometimes across the steppe, purple and black like a bruise. All we’d really do is make sure the yurts were secure. The wind would howl when it bore up against the rock face and come down some of those ravines like a stampede, and then it’d be on top of you. There are some things in nature you can’t defend against.

It was like that. They rolled into our camp and we couldn’t defend ourselves. The noise...I don’t know what we would’ve done differently. Get out of the way? Where was there to go? I just  —

I thought there would be something to fight.

#ffxivwrite2021 #my writing #blargh #power was out for most of my evening so i didn't have a lot of time to work on this #this was painful to get down #not a fan #ffxiv cheyesugen oryokuln

[idealistsinc]

Augustin (Oneirophrenia, 13)

Every day this city finds new ways to kill me. Today it’s the children screaming their shrill epithets as they pad down the alleys, and the barkers calling me over to squint down at their sun-bleached crafts in the street. They may as well be putting daggers to my ears, impaling my head from both sides like it’s a rotisserie hock and turning the blades, slowly, until whatever’s inside my skull is rendered to a mushy slurry. That’s an ugly way to think, but everything is hideous here. The faces, the architecture, the flora and the fauna. All of it wants me dead.

There’s a dim part of me that acknowledges this is the least charitable color with which to paint a city that could have executed me but didn’t. I ask that you don’t be so quick to judge me for it. Fairness is a hot commodity in my disposition when the sun itself is sending a railway spike down through my pate for a dozen bells a day. It was never like this before. I was a nice man, fair and pragmatic. I was a good friend, a caring brother and son, a conscientious leader of men and beasts alike. Now all I see are grim, grisly faces, and I know that what makes them ugly is the fact that I’m the one looking at them, but that doesn’t make them any less grotesque. It’s the inside coming out, the dead space left behind in my head from an imperfect excision that throbs with passive and impotent malice, projecting itself onto everything I see. It wasn’t always this way. I don’t know who I am anymore.

I’ve been called sanctimonious by a few ex-girlfriends, but until now, nobody has ever accused me of being cruel. The headache makes me mean. It steals my sleep, it robs me of my desire to eat, to laugh, to fuck. I’m not a sentimental man, but I miss being able to touch another person without finding even the most gentle sensations revolting. They won’t let me get a dog, but even if they did, I’m not sure I could love it. Not with the state I’m in, and not how it deserves. What does a man have, after all of that? Why am I still here?

#other writing #reblogs #listen #it occurred to me that i have 18k likes on main and that i was gonna lose all the good fics i read this year #so surprise #rebagels incoming #i am living for the rawness of 'impaling my head on both sides like a rotisserie hock' #also 'the sun itself is sending a railway spike down through my pate' #poor dude