#erdenechimeg kha

[gorgagne-viperidae]

#1 ENVOY

Reports, in your humble opinion, are a necessity to any field mission, a heads-up, a reassurance to the powers that be that all is well on the front, all is fine and dandy beyond the familiar bastions of civilization even when it isn’t. All may not actually be well north of the Coerthan mountain passes, but the finer details aren’t for the Lominsan thalassocracy to worry over; that’s your job, Erdenechimeg. To assess and report as necessary, by whatever means were available in the least conspicuous manner possible.

So it’s a real fucking pity indeed that [most of] your linkpearls are gone, left behind in the safety of a Maelstrom lockbox. Your contacts, distant. Your means, limited. Necessary sacrifices are made every day, but it leaves you in a particular position with a saying to match; something-something-Lominsan-boys-make-do. So you do. You make do as best as you can.

Today, your best is a recalcitrant post moogle. Its hat sits askew on its fuzzy head, fur groomed up to make a sleek curl just below the cap’s crooked brim. A mail bag three times the size of its bearer dangles casually off an improbable shoulder. No matter how you look at it, it’s a delinquent through and through. It makes your teeth ache to look at.

“Can you be discreet?” You ask it again with a patience worthy of sainthood. “It is important that you be so.”

If it had brows, the moogle’s would certainly be crooking up right now as it leans in, a tiny paw up by its tiny snout in a conspiratorial manner. “What’s it to you, kupo? You got nefarious doings going on? Secrets to hide?” A theatrical gasp, its sneer (you assume it’s a sneer) broadening in furry strokes. “Trying to get innocent folks caught up in your business, kupo?”

The moogle seems to have kenned that there’s something unorthodox about your letter-sending, something odd about your request in this age of tomestones and linkpearls, but unable to put a paw on it, it merely ruffles itself up, puffing big like a real rough customer oughtta. Its voice promptly drops. “Double, or I’m callin’ the Temple Kni-“

You are not a rich man, Erdenechimeg. Your stipend for this moon is already mostly spent, funneled diligently into the cost of a room and other living necessities this far out in the hinterlands. Your gilpurse sits woefully light in your pocket, a delicate but constant reminder that you are indeed dependent on your own abilities for time being. You don’t recall moogles requiring pay to do their jobs, but you also haven’t had to rely on the furry postal system for some turns now, so for all you know they could have unionized in the time it’s taken you to remember they exist.

Luckily for you, you were taught how to handle those uppity union-types by only the best.

Busy rubbing its little paws together in an unmistakable bid for cold hard gil, you catch this envoy of moogle-powered post by surprise mid-threat when you grab it by the pom. “-iGHYIII! N-n-n-now now!” It squeaks. Harried and fraught, the delinquent veneer peels off the little creature like tissue as its hat topples off its head and catches on the lip of its mail bag. Its neat curl of hair seems to fray in sympathy. Tiny paws wave and scramble, unable to reach high enough to even hope of stopping you from your potential pom crimes. “Let’s b-b-b-be-he-he-hee re-he-hEASONABLE, ku-hu-PO!”

The pom itself sits like a soft little fruit in your palm, easily engulfed when you close your fingers over it, and the noise this gentle squeeze earns you could power a city by force of decibel alone. All evidence of the tough customer is gone, shredded with the moogle’s dignity as it squeals for mercy in your [gentle] iron grip.

Feeling better about the transaction now, you delicately haul the trembling peapod of a creature up to your face, where it may catch every angle of your toothy smile as you say, “The good Temple Knights do not need to be bothered, I think.” The moogle trembles all the harder when your tone turns pleasant and reassuring. “Now, perhaps, now we can reasonably discuss postage prices, just you and I.”

“Kupooo…”

#erdenechimeg kha #ffxivwrite2023

[roses-and-grimoires]

Prompt #6: Ring

Characters: Keldrin, Erden by implication @gorgagne-viperidae

"Fucking sanctimonious arsehole!"

The words are the first thing that leave his lips, once he has finally shut the door into his dark sanctuary of an apartment. The sounds of the city filtered in, of course; people talking and laughing, vendors hawking their wares, and the ever present sound of the surf. But they are muffled, muffled enough that the duskwight doesn't bother to keep his voice down.

"Who the fuck does he think he is anyway?!

Unfortunately, he knew that answer, and it came out to "a guard with too much power and too little oversight". Which was just great for the au ra, not so much for him.

With an exasperated groan, Keldrin flops heavily down onto the bed. Reaching out blindly, he drags over a pillow, buries his face in it, and screams. He had tried to cover his tracks! He had tried not to draw attention to himself! He had tried to act like an Eorzean!

And yet, here he was.

With another groan he rolls over, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he runs over the events of the day. Nearby, the console that he had cobbled together casts a faint light as it hums, while his pet snake had (perhaps wisely) elected to stay coiled upon the couch that he had claimed as his. His favorite guitar hung on the wall, alongside the lute that he tended to play nowadays.

At least here, he didn't have to put on an act.

A fortunate thing, considering that that was what he was being... well. "Asked" wasn't really the word, was it? Being asked implied that one had a choice, and he really didn't. Not if he didn't want his newfound life, the one that he had been working so very hard to build, to crash into the ground.

After all, while he wasn't quite sure how Limsa treated spies, he knew how his old home did, and he had a feeling it wasn't much better.

His eyes linger upon the instruments hanging upon the wall, then he exhales a heavy sigh. No, he really didn't have a choice at all. So that meant it was time to start working on that act too.

#ffxivwrite2023 #ffxivwrite #keldrin helviana #amaranth #erdenechimeg kha #the ring #when you get blackmailed into joining a criminal organization #it's fiiiine

[blisteringstar]

Prompt Two: Bolt

Every year when Obon came around, Inwa would pray for the family he didn't know and send a boat out for their souls, hoping they had found their way where ever they were. He would get dressed in his priest garb and bless people's homes, welcoming the spirits of their loved ones and attending festivals where both the living and the dead could be found.

This year Inwa did not attend.

His priest clothes stayed folded in the trunk he put them in. There were no boats or drums accompanied by singing and dancing. Inwa didn't greet the fires and festivals of summer. It didn't make sense to participate in those traditions he loved anymore.

This was the year Inwa learned he was a dragon and that his family was assumed to be alive. For the first time, Inwa had a mother and uncles. Inwa had an origin and a true name. He came from somewhere and was born. In his wildest dreams, he never thought he'd get to feel like everyone else. Inwa existed like everyone else and this both overjoyed and scared him.

The thought did cross his mind to go and send a boat out for his missing father and siblings, but he chose not to. He didn't want to believe them to be dead. There was no reason to send their spirits on when their spirits should be part of the living world. His family was alive and were his. Erden was also alive. This was not the time to think of the dead, but to be grateful for what was still alive.

Ume and Anzu got to see their father again and Inwa got to witness the reunion. Watching his brother embrace his twin girls once again made the time their family was broken worth it. Even if their family was smaller now that Erden's fiancee mysteriously vanished, it felt whole again.

Not everything was joy and happiness. Learning you're a dragon came with expected downsides. Those who would talk down to him now had new ammo to launch at him. Parts of his newly found family were cruel and violent. Too many times had he already heard insults about dragons, his family, and what it meant for the heritage and upbringing he didn't have until recently. Ishgard, which had felt like a second home to him for so long, quickly became a source of anxiety and avoidance. People he formerly trusted became the first to throw stones.

Yet he took this all in stride. It was a time to be happy and grateful for the family he had, even if it came suddenly and without warning. This was not the time to celebrate death in his life. There would be a time when Obon came around again to give proper reverence and peace to those he knew needed help to join the festivities and move back on to the aether flow.

This year he will celebrate life quietly by himself.

#ffxivwrite2022 #Sw'inwa Raen #Mentions of: #Erdenechimeg Kha #Ume Kha #Anzu Kha #Various dragons

[daylightrays]

Non-Gpose Screenshots

Most of the time, if I’m not using gpose, then it’s because I’m trying to show someone something. That being said, I don’t remember taking the first screenshot at all. It’s real cute but I have no recollection of taking it.

Also shown here: The Priarch being ourselves and Erden still not changing his makeup even on mission.

Tagged by @houserosaire

Tagging: Who hasn’t done this.... I’m not sure. Please do it anyway! I want to be nosy.

#Sw'inwa Raen #Honore du Rosaire #The Priarch #Erdenechimeg Kha #meme fill

[theprovinggrounds-blog]

The Proving Grounds XXV!

Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Eorzea and parts both exotic and mundane, join us for a very special edition of the Proving Grounds as we celebrate our XXVth installment!  Come join us as our gladiators strip down to their gloriously gilded undergarments and fight to the near-death in a sandy, bloody pit of mostly regret!  We guarantee it'll be a fun way to spend your time!  For this edition of the games, things are getting changed up in celebration of our milestone event: A very special guest Gamemaster shall be presiding over the event, a gleaming Golden Dagger will be presented to the winner rather than a Rosewood Dagger- and only one of these is required to be called a Proving Grounds Champion.  Lastly, some of the games' usually iron-clad rules of engagement have been relaxed.  Absolutely anything goes for these XXVth games, folks!  We set the stage for these special games with what promises to be a barnburner between Erdenechimeg Kha and Eigengrau Hatasashi.  Erdenechimeg won a Rosewood Dagger on his very first games, defeating a pair of former winners along the way, while the talented dancer looks to return to the path of victory at the Kha's expense.  Our second match involves a veteran of the games, the enigmatic Kojhin Oronir- who's never met a fight he didn't want to pick- and a special guest gladiator, the personal champion of our Very Special Guest Gamesmaster, a mysterious warrior hailing from far off lands whose name is as shrouded in mystery as the rest of them! The third bout is between former winner Kindoron Tumet and the Proving Grounds very own proverbial bridesmaid C'novhi Tia.  Will the terrifying Tumet claim the Golden Dagger or will the tenacious Tia finally break through?  And rounding out the first round is a battle of previous winners, Rothgar Gunnarsvard and Delesta Dorel in a battle of unorthodox experience versus cagey street smarts.  Will either of these two seasoned veterans rise up and claim the Golden Dagger?  The bookmakers are saying 'Maybe'!  See you there!

#the proving grounds #PG #PG XXV #PG Promos #mateus rp #mateus events #ffxiv rp #combat rp #Gladiatorial Combat #crystal rp

[thedarknesssings]

Shaelith Sinnoraint and Erdenechimeg Kha @gorgagne-viperidae  

--

Near The Burning Wall in Thanalan.

#shaelith #erden #burning wall #this is a date #mwahaha #au ra #elezen #xaela #duskwight #Uldahn mafia #mateus #rp #screenshot

[gorgagne-viperidae]

#erdenechimeg kha #ffxiv #a hansom lad

[blisteringstar]

Prompt #11 - Once Bitten, Twice Shy

The face of his maker showed up at the Edarien's door and Cisne nearly closed it without a second thought. If there was ever a face that would get a true and clear reaction out of him, it would be this one. It was the face of his egotistical maker who only wanted Inwa. He wouldn't have been in the wrong to sock him right in the jaw and tell him to go straight to hell.

Instead, he let him in and they talked. Crane was dead, after all. The man before him was faultless. Cisne heard him out and agreed to help him, but he couldn't get rid of the feeling in his gut throughout that talk. Who told him about what he could do? Why would anyone who knows him volunteer him to this man of all people? Cisne attempted to be cordial through the rage even if he was not polite.

The conversation seemed to almost go on forever until the massive au ra finally departed and left him to himself in the parlor. There was a room in The Forgotten Knight that he could share with him, accepting him as 'the one in charge' while they worked together. The mere thought of being alone with him had Cisne throwing his violin and bow at the couch harder than the instrument deserved, resting with a dull thud against the cushions. The face that abandoned him because he was a failed attempt wanted his help now? How many others were also going to be taken in by that face again?

But he agreed. The hatred built up in his throat could have choked him, but he agreed. This Invader stood there impassively, muttering out clipped words and offers. He was so straight and to the point that Cisne could hardly conceive how he intended to pull off whatever it was he was asking help for, or why Crane picked such a wet paper bag as his host. He was as charismatic as an eel, but Cisne didn't want to delve deeper than that. He refused to feel what was going on in that head ever again.

Cisne's foot rose and collided with the arm of the sofa, kicking it in rapid succession, a loud noise of the feet dragging against the floor as he did.

He didn't want to help him!

Kick!

He didn't want to see that face anymore!

Kick!!

He didn't want to feel fondness when he saw him either!

That warm feeling made him want to puke. It wasn't his fondness, yet he was forced to hold it like a curse. How could he ever trust him again? There was a point in time where 'Cisne' trusted them all and thought there could be beauty in feelings. The only place that got him was this frozen hellhole under the 'watchful gaze' of a spineless traitor who was more than pleased to live as another man's dog.

Finally, Cisne took a slow, shuttering breath, hunched over with his arms lax at his sides and his feet both firmly on the ground. Around him the neatly pinned curls that were up in a bun on his head had begun to fall out, forming a curtain around his face of raw, unbridled, raging fear.

They were different. There was nothing about Erdenechimeg and Crane that was alike other than that face. Cisne still could not find it in his heart to trust him like family. This time he would be cautious.

This time he would make sure that face never forgot him.

#ffxiv oc #final fantasy xiv #ffxivwrite2023 #cisne nocturneaux #mentions of Erdenechimeg Kha #mentions of Crane #the next couple of fills are all cisne #at least he's pretty to look at?? #I guess also mentions of the Grisseux couple

[blisteringstar]

Inwa Raen

—𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒔

Name: Grian Morgoric I guess? Still figuring out the family name

Alias:  Inwa Raen, Yanagisawa Kyou, Yamazaki Kouki, Little Fox

Age: Appears late-twenties 

Nameday: 20th Sun of the 5th Umbral Moon

Race: Seeker of the Sun Miqo’te (Undisclosed)

Gender: Male 

Orientation: Awkward

Profession: Captain of magic at Priarch, Priest in Hingashi (Under Kouki), Yakuza Doctor, Information broker

—𝒑𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔

Hair: Black with red peppered throughout 

Eyes: Bright red

Skin: awkward tone between “he isn’t white or pale” but not “he’s tanned” He has color to him.

Tattoos/scars: None and yes this should be unnerving

—𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚

Parents: S’ghuro Tia (foster father), Casca Raen (foster father), Oriane (birth mother), Gilvain (birth father)

Siblings: He has no idea, but he is aware he should have two siblings somewhere, Erdenechimeg Kha (foster brother)

Grandparents: Primordial Entity Known As Chaos (it’s best not to ask about Grandma Chaos)

In-laws and Other: Nope

Children: Son he hasn’t met yet

Pets: Isamu (otter), Toshirou (bat), Daisuke (Onion Mandragora), others

—𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔

Abilities: He’s been known to do a little magic. A talent that he has always possessed. And he uses it on behalf of those that need and ask for help. There’s far more to it, but it would be easier to ask him directly.

—𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔

Most Positive Trait: Optimistic, able to put the hard choices before himself, very good at thinking through problems and finding the most probable answer

Most Negative Trait: Anxious, overthinker, double-edged patience, low-confidence, slow to answer but when he gets there it burns 

—𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒔

Colors: Lavender, Silver

Smells: tea, sea breezes

Textures: Doesn’t think about it

Drinks: Sake, Baijiu, eastern teas

—𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔

Smokes: The only smoking he’s doing is when it comes billowing from between his teeth when he’s mad

Drinks: Only when he’s truly depressed and trying ignore it these days

Drugs: Medical only

Mount Issuance: None! He has a giant Spriggan that carries him around sometimes, a spell to make Daisuke bigger, and a bond with a pack of giant wolves that sometimes need him to do them a favor.

Been Arrested: Not for anything he’s done/not technically.

Tagged by: two people, so I guess Cisne will get one later.

#sw'inwa raen #ffxiv oc #tagged in meme

[blisteringstar]

Character Summary: Grian/Inwa

Alias/nicknames. Real name: Grian, also known as: Sw'inwa Raen, Inwa, Yamazaki Kouki, Little Fox, Mage of the Blistering Sun, The Negotiator, Compassion

Gender. He/Him

Age. 26-ish, 20th Sun of the Fifth Umbral Moon (Oct. 20th)

Zodiac. Libra (Nald'thal)

Abilities + talents. A mage who has studied conjury and thaumaturgy, he specializes in elemental magic and healing. He is also good at Onmyoudo and far eastern priest practices due to his work as a priest. Currently, he is learning other methods such as soul magic, summoning carbuncles, changing his body, and other forms of magic.

outside of magic, there is: studying aetherology, gathering and creating his own tea, dancing, and negotiating when necessary. .

Alignment. lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true

Religion. Inwa works as a priest in Hingashi, but outside of that he doesn't follow any actual religions

Sins. envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath

Virtues. charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience

Languages. speaks Hingan/Far Eastern at a native level (first language), Fluent in Steppe and Common, Business level Sharlayan, can understand sailor speak

Family. Erdenechimeg Kha (adopted brother), Sabri Bhasin (adopted parent), Enkai (adopted parent), Arsceva (birth mother), Gilvain (birth father), Helivant (uncle), Kieros (uncle), Angellos (maybe uncle), Isolvar (a bastard who shares blood), Idristan (cousin and Isolvar's son)

Friends. Talia Redwing and Silvaineaux Rosaire are his closest friends and the people he trusts unquestioningly, Latika'a comes after that, and then all of Priarch, his boss, and the other Secariots, most people he has ever met who haven't tried to kill him, he did even force friendship on Emet-Selch once.

Sexuality. heterosexual / bisexual / pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other

Relationship. single / partnered / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating yet / it’s complicated

Libido. sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent (this depends on the time of year)

Build. slender / average / athletic / muscular / curvy / other

Hair. white / blonde / brunette / red / black

Eyes. brown / blue / gray / green / black / other (red)

Skin. pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / dark / other

Height. 5'1 and a half, 155 cms

Scars. All of his scars are freshly gone! His tattoo is also gone. Dying gave him a fresh body.

dogs or cats || birds or bugs || snakes or spiders || coffee or tea || ice cream or cake || fruits or vegetables || sandwich or soup || magic or melee || sword shield dagger or bow || summer or winter || spring or autumn || past or future

A few songs that remind you of them: Oh god no I am terrible at this my mind is suddenly blank and I no longer remember what music is

#sw'inwa raen #ffxiv oc #final fantasy xiv

[gorgagne-viperidae]

You had a dream last night. 

This is significant because you, Crane, do not dream. Gestalt entities like you generally don’t, generally are incapable of it, and even your vessels lose the ability once you’ve slid into the meat of their bodies to drown them out like rats in a storm drain. The things that make an individual, you eat, you suck out like marrow until the hollow cavernous space left over is big enough for you to crawl, curl, crouch into so, no, they do not dream like the dead don’t dream and neither do you.

But last night, in the span of the bell where you let yourself close your eyes and indulge in the luxury of sleep, you did. You dreamt of a house by the shoreline and the sea burbling around your ankles in playful swirls and eddies while white gulls sang their shrieking songs overhead in a sky painted blue that bled into violet and the fiery red of sunset. The sand burned gold in the last bright flare of the dying light and in this luminous haze you turned away from the sea to meet the figures approaching down the gilded beach; two small, running to you in the ungainly dash of the very young while the two larger looked on. You remember a feeling, a dimly glowing burn of joy and fondness in your breast that persists even now followed almost immediately by a growing disquiet that clings to you even now long past waking.

You don’t remember their faces, for the figures in your dream had none.

In your dream, yawning pits like holes in the world lay where features should have been, blotting out their identities like ink on a page. Obscuring from you the faces of the two little girls who called your host ‘father’, wiping away for you the names of the men-- husband and brother- you swear are on the tip of your tongue. Your family, Erdenechimeg’s little fostered family, stained like the dregs of the man your vessel once was could possibly hide them from you.

What bothers you in the waking world isn’t that you dreamed at all, but that even now you still can’t remember their names. Not the girls who played in the surf at your (erden’s) side, not the man and his ink-black hair with fingers intertwined with (erden’s) yours, not the miqo’te with his soft ears and sad smile who sat flush at erden’s (your) side. The things that make an individual, you eat. You suck out like marrow until the hollow cavernous space left over is big enough for you to crawl, curl, crouch into until there is nothing left but you, you, insidious usurping you, Crane.

But it is not hollow.

You are not alone in this breathing cavity of blood and bone.

#ffxivwrite2021 #the crane #erdenechimeg kha #this one is late but i wanted to get it out

[gorgagne-viperidae]

#3 scale

You never really liked mirrors. 

You, Crane, an entity of a dozen faces and none of them truly yours, you never liked mirrors until now. They were windows, strange portals that reminded you each time of what you were and what you weren’t and what skins you liked and what you didn’t and when the novelty of a new face wore off, all you could see were the incongruities, the pieces that never fit with you, on you, in you, the dissatisfaction of yourself shining out through your vessel’s eyes like the signal lights flashing on a ship at sea.

Even now, now when the novelty is still alive and the beauty of your vessel is enough to draw you to one, you still don’t like mirrors. Through the beauty and the striking features, all you can see are the flaws, the scars, the imperfections inherent in every living thing cursed to walk this star. Look at them, Crane, at each mar and scrape that make up the man whose life you snatched in the night. Look at them and remember.

Trace with strong fingers trace the scar that runs across your jawline, Crane, a thick mat of keloid tissue that marks a scar meant to be mortal but somehow survived. The memories you have stolen tell tale of a battle, a prize fight lost but suffused still with unparalleled glory gushed across the battlefield sands. Palm the ruins of your left horn, the wicked curve of it cut short in a jagged, uneven stump where a gladiator had cracked it off like a fucking branch; contemplate how, even now with the soothing flood of Ink in your veins, the missing section of horn throws off your balance in such small and noticeable ways, makes you sway if you’re not paying attention, makes you dizzy if you swing your heavy head ‘round too fast or too wide.

Thumb the space on your cheekbone where your scales grow in jagged and uneven, where spiteful claws had ripped the neat, iridescent-black plates up in a fit of hate and fury. You’d be the first to admit you’re a vain creature, taken with your own appearance, and this has always been a thorn in your craw since the moment you’d curled into this vessel and made it your own; the way the scales have grown in after that miqo’te bitch had torn them out has always been uneven, unnatural, at odds with the rest of your face. Too small and too fresh amidst the weather-worn plates that span high cheekbones and disappear into the curling line of your hair.

You hate it.

#ffxivwrite2021 #the crane #erdenechimeg kha

[gorgagne-viperidae]

#4 clinch; erdenechimeg

(for the ffxivwrite challenge, companion to @shadowburgers piece of the same prompt)

Whisper as the rope slides through your fingers, jute become as pliable as string in your calloused hands. Whisper to the quiet air, to the cry of sea birds beyond the opened porthole, the rumble of your voice soft and measured as of prayer, carrying in it the easy beat of recitation threading through the groan of a ship at sea.

rope knots like webs hold

concepts of divinity

bound in painted limbs

Allow yourself a smile, Erden, as you pull the next knot taut, let the satisfaction roll through you steady as a wave. Reach out, curl a thick finger around one of the array of ropes that spreads from the crossbeam like a web and pluck it. Listen to the thrum of the vibration, to the creak of jute wound around wood and limbs alike, and as this single bass note sounds, look down to admire your work. The sweep of hair across inked shoulders, black on vivid irezumi bisecting rope and skin in gleaming black bars. A concept of divinity.

Smile, Erdenechimeg, and ready the next coil of rope that will make this man- this wretch of a bastard of a husband of a divine fucking being- a work of art.

#ffxivwrite2020 #erdenechimeg kha #makoto matsuoka #mobile posting is like taping my writing to a post it note #folding it into an airplane #and throwing it at the screen #go to god lil dude

[gorgagne-viperidae]

pre-dawn light

#ffxiv #erdenechimeg kha #makoto matsuoka #opportune moments made majestic by my shaders

[gorgagne-viperidae]

erden; threshold

you. 

you know this dream. you know how it begins and you could count off each second with a preciseness so perfect it could cut, you know it as you know the exact tick of seconds per minute, minutes per bell, bells per day per sennight per moon. it has been years since it last haunted you and you could recite it from memory in perfect unbroken recollection without a hitch but it doesn’t stop your heart from hammering in the cage of your chest, doesn’t stop the strangling terror from taking root in your blood, blooming poisonous and terrible. you know it is here the moment the technicolour blur of your dreams goes dark and awareness, awareness is a fist to the gut, dragging you from the sluggish depths of oblivious ignorance into cold cognizant lucidity

it begins like this: a vast plain stretches out from beneath your feet and reaches out far beyond the range of your sight. if there is a sky, it is the same inky black as the earth, indistinguishable and seamless at the unseen horizon such that it leaves you- small, lonely you- surrounded in night so complete it strikes you blind. but you are not blind; you see yourself, the only thing there to see, too-long limbs and too-large horns curling at the peripheral of your limited vision in a sweep of ridges and keratin; a comfort however small. it is not night nor darkness so much as it is an absence, a gaping void so unfathomably complete that it defies comprehension. in the way of dreams (or is it memory?), you know without knowing that where you stand is, at once, beyond the space that She occupies and yet below it, the flip side of a coin unseen and yet as vast as the world itself. the knowledge is an ache, a hard knot of dread in the pit of your gut, a litany running itself raw behind your teeth repeating the same realisation over and over: you were never meant to be here.

in the way of dreams you begin to walk, strong legs carrying you nowhere as quick as thought. you don’t need to see the passage of a landscape that isn’t there to know you aren’t moving; where else is there to go but nowhere?

in the way of dreams you begin to run. run, run! faster, legs pumping until your muscles scream you sprint through nothing, lungs heaving like a bellows feeding fire and the first sparks of panic into your blood and you run. you run until you can’t. until you stagger to a walk with your hand on your side like you could massage away the thrumming sharp stitch working its way through your ribs, until your breath sears your throat and all you can hear beneath your own gasping is the roar of your blood under your burning skin. your pulse is a drum, beating a frenetic pace in perfect time with the slide of your composure into chaos. you breathe ice, the shards sticking in you in painful splinters as dread freezes your heart in place.

in the way of nightmares you begin to shout, vocal chords straining as you run your breath ragged and airless proclaiming: here i am! i am real! shouting turns to screams, defiance runs itself into desperation like a skein of thread unraveling in tangled and helpless knots. you are real! you scream yourself hoarse on names you cannot recall; is it your family you call for? who? yet call as you may, they don’t answer. nothing answers. the dark swallows your words whole, greedily drinks the hard notes of your spiraling despair and you wonder, under the panic and aimless urgency, what it means if you can’t hear yourself. night closes in oppressive, as thick and as heavy as ink, somehow viscous in a way that lingers on your tongue with a copper tang of fear. it clouds you, presses in on you, renders you as deaf as you are blind so that your tears fall unheard and unnoticed.

you. small, lonely you, you begin to cry. time is a concept that no longer concerns itself with you; you have lingered in this limbo forever while the dark eats your child’s pleading for someone, anyone to help you. in the way of nightmares you know this is your fault, that this is your price for daring to dream, for having the temerity to follow your family across the threshold into the unknown. family. cry harder for the shining memories of them gleaming blinking beckoning like beacons in the distance, feel the shudder of your sobs in your limbs like the shake of boughs in the wind because the truth is this and simply this: you are scared. cast out into the underside of creation you are lost and scared and unprepared.

in the way of guilty hearts you think, maybe you were never meant to follow. maybe you never should have stepped off the precipice, you should have stayed safe and cowardly on the other side while the shards of your heart disappeared into the light like soap bubbles, floating high and free and with a hope so querulous it’s no wonder everyone called it a suicide mission. but you -small, lonely you- could never suffer to be alone. so here you are.

crying turns back to pleading turns to bargaining. is anyone listening? you demand: take me back. you plead: i want to go back. in fading desperation, you bargain: i will do anything. exhausted, you weep: i will give anything. your offer hangs in the dark like a single clarion note, trembling with emotion and a conviction you have never held prior to now. you wait. bells pass, days pass, years pass and it is when you begin gouging at your horns with blunted bleeding nails for any scrap of a sound that isn’t just your heartbeat, it happens. 

you don’t notice it at first. you don’t notice anything until your breath rasps strained in your throat around thin air that hurts to breathe. the endless black around you gains a weight that surpasses gravity, gathers into itself a density that presses in on you with intent to crush. as if it had been waiting, watching for you to notice it, this aching nothingness collapses in on itself like walls, batters you, engulfs you and with a breathless and mounting horror you watch it rise like the ravenous sea to swallow you piece by struggling piece. it consumes you without sound or fanfare in a cold and singular impartiality despite its evident patience, eats your screams in a muffling tide only to pour into your mouth as heavy and as cold as the uncaring ocean and as it closes in over your head in inky waves to drown you crush you pull you under you

---

Wake up, Erdenechimeg.

Breathe. Suck in a hard lungful of air, feel how sharply it aches when it unfurls in your chest in slow, burning waves, straining from an exertion you do not recall undergoing. Your throat is a flayed thing, raw in patches as if you have screamed, shouted, cried your way through the veil of sleep and the sting of it is what grounds you. Your limbs shake, your bones shake in their casings of muscle roped so tight and tense it’s a wonder they haven’t cracked. Your hands are claws sunk into your own forearms, blunted fingernails dug into skin and scale as if you could pry yourself open and take refuge in your own racing blood. Hyperventilation lurks over your shoulder, raking cold nails down your ribs and you bury your face back into the well of your crossed arms and you bite into the crumpled ball of your pillow to stave off the wild scream digging furrows into your throat.

You calm in stages. Reaching through the maelstrom of your panic you pick a point, any point to focus on that isn’t the stuttering babbling thing living behind your teeth. Start small, Erdenechimeg. Take the darkness, first. It is night, but even with your face tucked into the shield of your arms you can tell this night is as bright as day in the face of the true darkness of nothing. Here, in the holy dark of your shared room, the night lays soft and gentle over the two of you like a blanket, warm and flavoured with the tang of salt from the sea breeze through the window. The body curled into your side like a comma slumbers on, unaware of the panic thrumming through you like a frenetic beat. Breathe. Makoto sleeps undisturbed, colourful and warm with his hair spread out across the pillowcase like an ink bottle spilled, here and solid and so real it stings your eyes, a prickling in the back of your nose. You measure out your breath, force it into uniformity lest the shake of your shoulders give you away.

Morning is bells away still, the skies beyond the window lightening in slow gradients to wash out the rich, star-studded night to softer grey and blue hues. Bells until the horizon sets itself ablaze with the sun rising over the ocean, throwing lazy fingers across your bedroom wall to set the colour in Makoto’s skin afire with life and warmth anew. Bells until the household stirs, until your lover trades in his quiet snoring for louder murmurs of complaint or query or sleep-soft endearments. Bells, still, of warding off sleep, ducking under its welcoming arms to lie in stubborn wakefulness because you know, history has taught you that the dark waits behind your eyelids for the moment you forget yourself.

So you wait, Erdenechimeg.

You can wait.

#ffxivwrite2019 #erdenechimeg kha #ic post #kicking off the last prompt with hell

[gorgagne-viperidae]

erden; scour, #14

[ for #ffxivwrite2019 ]

Dig deep enough, and you will find everything is connected. You, Erden, are in deep. Up to your elbows, up to your shoulders in this mire of your own discovery, you could not find your way to stable ground if you tried.

You think this is fine.

The table under your hands is plastered ilm to ilm with paper; sheafs and scraps, vellum and parchment all arranged despite their differing sizes, cuts, dimensions into pristine rows and columns, fitted together as one would a puzzle. Notes, documents, maps both rudimentary and detailed lay spread with their curling and folded edges weighted down with stones and cutlery and knick-knacks, anything heavy enough in immediate reach. Here, a chipped teacup. There, an empty inkwell. The remnants of your now-empty apartment strewn out in likewise regimented order to await inspection, judgement, sentencing. It’s a mess, but you have more pressing matters to occupy your attention tonight. For once, you pay the dust under your boots little mind.

The array before you is a myriad collection. Official documentation sits cheek to jowl with hastily-scribbled notes on scraps and napkins alike, some painstakingly rewritten in your slanted hand but not all, not enough. Receipts, memos, cargo manifests, passenger lists, memoirs, names and locations and quantities and time tables, it’s an armload and it’s nowhere near enough. You could scour the whole of Eorzea to fill the holes in the picture these pieces paint for you but it will never be enough. So start small.

Pick a point, Erden. Take for instance the transcript of your meeting with that merchant, Huifen, an aging Doman widow based out in far-off Mor Dhona. Press the tips of your fingers over the neatly folded sheet, penned immaculate by your own shameful hand. (repress a shudder, that very crawl of shame tucked away into a quiet little compartment for later perusal.) Alchemical reagents and medicinal herbs. Three major buyers of a rare and expensive little worm with a fungus growing out of its rare and expensive little head. Toxic in its unaltered state, it makes for a powerful aphrodisiac and euphoric in the right alchemist’s hands. Check that. In a skilled alchemist’s hands. 

Buyers: four. Three regular, one single purchase large enough to make it noteworthy. Of the regular: two businesses, an apothecary and an enterprise respectively, and Makoto. Allow yourself the prickle of surprise this brings, then set it aside. Compartmentalise. Separate the heart from the facts: Makoto the drug-pusher cooks his own product, fact. Makoto specialises in designer drugs, alchemical compounds which recipes are nothing if not a family trade secret, also a fact. The worms, though, those are new. You have never asked after his product, never questioned beyond what he already offers on the surface level of his business. 

Also a fact: you’re letting you distract you. Anchor yourself. Your free hand framing the scaled barbs of your chin keeps you down, the rasp of the pad of your thumb on black scales puts you back in place. Look at the names again, scratched out in charcoal sharpened to a fine point.

Four buyers. Three regular; the outlier is your focus, don’t lag. Trace the words as if touching them could somehow grant you an insight every prior recounting has failed to provide. Huifen’s description of this mystery customer lines up with the scraps you’ve found trawling the Limsan dockside: a ‘real looker’ by her terms; hyur, tattoos painting his arms in waves, a fish swimming the length of his pulse like a charm. Young. It could be Makoto himself, you could have taken it as Makoto were it not for every witness statement that placed him in the company of his young wife and son. 

Follow the line, finger tracing an unseen thread to the embossed page of a ship manifest. The Westwind. Cargo bound for port at Radz-at-Han, passenger freight paid at a premium. Some twenty-odd names make the manifest, every man, woman, and child who made it on board and not a single soul more. Your tattooed man, according to selfsame witnesses, did not board with his family. A screaming match, awkward memories standing out fresh mark this testimony as the odd one out. His name never made the list but you, Erdenechimeg, did not let that stop you. You spare a glance for the badge weighing down this particular document and Limsan brass and red wink back at you like an accusation. It got you your names. You will answer for it when word gets back to command that you pulled rank for a passenger list on a private enterprise, be it tomorrow or the next moon. You have already deemed it a necessary sacrifice.

Why, Erdenechimeg, do you risk for the name of a phantom? Separate the heart from the facts.

Fact. Because a family trade secret has been leaked. Because esoteric as Matsuoka’s recipe may be, it is the very thing guaranteeing him a monopoly on what is a booming trade in a growing industry of designer drugs. Serendipity on western shores is set to spread like an ink stain under one brand, one name, one source. The problem: you have found it on the market pushed by sellers who are not Makoto or his kin. A recipe sold and filtered through Eorzea’s fetid underbelly must have a source if it is not from Makoto’s hands themselves; a trade secret doesn’t just spill itself.

Also a fact: you are invested in this well and beyond the mere call of duty.

Look at the maps next. Frown as you wrap your hand around the thick points of your horn, fidgeting with it in nervous habit. The pad of your thumb runs rough rhythmic circles over black and red ridges in the keratin, grounds you with tactile sensation and the audible rasp of skin on horn. Look. Your person of interest was last seen leaving Limsa by ferry. Not to Thavnair with his family, but to the mainland, and this is where you come up short. Your maps cover the sprawling reaches of Thanalan, rich and detailed and dotted with splotches of ink by your own hand; markers clutter the once pristine stretch of the western shores, circles and crossed-out towns, main roads and cart tracks alike outlined in thick strokes marking every malm of your search that has turned up empty. It is not enough. Your one lead has disappeared like a phantom in the night.

Blunt nails scratch scratch scratch and scrape at the ridges of your horn, staccato snaps of pressure and sound for each time the nail edge clicks roughshod over a rough patch. Your tail snaps in time, short twitches trembling in the tip of it. Mounting aggravation makes a massacre of your patience, makes a thrumming hive of your body, a thousand thousand bees buzzing fit to split your skull asunder, your bones to bits. Where? Where could he have gone? Go over it again, Erdenechimeg. Lists, manifests, maps. Again. Stare at the thrice-folded scrap of parchment pinned under your thumb, your hand pressed flat and so tense you can see the tendons stand out under your skin, raising your scales like roots beneath the earth. One name penned with all the care of a curse.

Limsan brass and Maelstrom red got you the name of Himura Nishikiyama, lieutenant Kha. What will you do with it?

Close your eyes, roll the name on your tongue, as if this is your first time tasting it and not the hundredth. Whisper it into the patient lamplight, listen to the bass rumble of your own voice set against the rasp of your nails on horn. Don’t think of the short, bloody story of a poet Makoto told you seasons ago. Think of iron teeth in a box of ashes, then don’t. Think instead of the weight of coincidence pressing you further into this bog masquerading as a paper trail. Consider turning your back on it, entertain the possibility for the three seconds allowed you before the conviction already burning in your breast dismisses the thought as nonsensical.

You, Erdenechimeg. Of the Kha, of the Ito, of Matsuoka. You, lieutenant, in your Maelstrom reds, cannot give up. Neither your heart nor your upbringing will allow anything less than this: dedication to the point of obsession, the problem you will come back to again and again. Repetitive. Obsessive, because the fact is this, simply this: there is a question hanging over your head that you cannot answer yet, lurking under the surface and dogging your steps for every one you take in your search for Himura.

How will you deal with Himura Nishikiyama?

What will you do with Nishiki, Erden?

Unable to find an answer, you open your eyes, and start over. Pick a point, Erden. The likelihood of this chase leading you to some degree of ruin is astronomical. 

You think this is fine.

#ffxivwrite2019 #erdenechimeg kha