#inspo birb has come to town

[redwayfarers]

survivor - for the random word generator prompt!

hello! sorry for the wait, real life got the better of me and i didn't write, but i was reading gide and this came to me like an angel, so i had to write it! if it reads like les faux monnayeurs, i'm so sorry lmao, this is why they tell you not to write immediately after reading (affectionate)

a flickering light, or a tale of two survivors

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Cassander/Stephanivien (implied), Nika/Minfilia Characters: Cassander Inteus (aka a Cass AU), Nika Perseis (WoL), Stephanivien de Haillenarte Rating: Gen Words: 1759 Spoilers: ARR patches, if you squint. dividers by @saradika

Set during early Heavensward.

The Skysteel Manufactory gets stupidly creepy at night. It’s not lit by torches or something, like some parts of the city - Stephanivien saw to that, he’s too avant-garde for torches, how dare the world not use every technological advancement ever! - and there’s a few of the lamps that go on and off, like a broken clock. Stephanivien is too busy to see that of all things, and we’re all far too enthralled by the creepiness to tell him. 

Some of us have weird tastes. 

The workshops on higher levels are a mess of metal parts, wires, cogs, magical devices and whatever the fuck machinists need. There’s a beauty in that too, in a way. It feels lived in, like a childhood bedroom you can’t yet leave even though you’re getting married tomorrow. Except that I was an adult when I first saw this room, and that I’d have no idea what a beloved childhood room would look, let alone feel like. My childhood bedroom - or the room where I spent a large part of what people call a childhood, anyways - is pristine, devoid of personality, rich, opulent. It’s a stage more than anything. Only thing remotely lived in in that whole fucking room - no, the whole shitty house - is the bright, orange pillow with Dzemael sigil sewn on it. 

It was embarrassing, packing your childhood pillow, the first time I left to spend the night in the Manufactory. But maybe I am embarrassing, deep down, so I get to keep my little pillow with me and go freeze in the messy, lived in workshops overnight. The more I got used to that, the less embarrassing it felt. 

One day, I might even go take it to Coerthas and drown in a river there. I’m sure my mother would be happier for it. She found the pillow rather tacky anyways. 

“It was very.. Kind of you to let me in,” I told Stephanivien one night, seated beside him to watch him work. His eyeshadow bore the signs of wearing, a little messy at the edges. His forehead gleamed with sweat. The lamp was dying, but he was too engrossed in his work to notice and I was too engrossed in him to tell him. 

“Kind? Cassander, your mother is an absolute bitch. Even if you weren’t as pretty as you are, I would have taken you in regardless. Between us, darling, you’re wasted in that house.” He smiled, widely. “You look much better with a gun in your hand, I will say.” 

“You will,” I laugh, looking at my hands. My cheeks were burning. “I think I like guns. Long ones in particular. Elegant. You may think I’m referring to something else, but no, I am referring to metal objects you use to shoot things with.”

“You’re funny,” Stephanivien shakes his head. “I can make you one, if you’d like. Golden, to match the pillow.” 

“My future gun has a bed now, who would’ve thought.” I reached out and grasped his gloved hand, dirty from the work. Stephanivien smiled, and it seemed brighter than the dying lamp above our heads. 

Maybe I’m also a little fond of that struggling, dying thing. I go up sometimes, when it’s cold, or rainy, or everyone’s simply too busy for me and my jobless ass, sit beneath it and look at the gun Stephanivien gave me. A nameday gift, engraved with a little dagger. It’s in pristine condition, but I clean it anyway, with all the care you afford a priceless, porcelain vase; the light flickers, on and off, but I don’t need it to see the little dagger engraving, the nooks and the crannies and the long barrel that feels like something my mother would hate. 

That, too, brings me joy. Theokleia de Dzemael hates machinists, on principle. The fact that I not only own a gun, but can shoot with it, is a kind of pleasure I wouldn’t have thought myself capable of some 5 years ago. 

This particular evening, I climb up the stairs to the workshop, coffee in hand, ready to clean it from the last practice from earlier. A curl that the goggles aren’t holding up tickles my temple, but I’ll be damned if I let my coffee spill just because of one stray piece of hair that refuses to sit still. I kick the door open. 

“I like your gun,” someone says before I can fully register them. A pair of mismatched eyes moves from the weapon to me and my coffee. “Did you also drink the last of the coffee?” 

“I’m not a coffee maniac,” I grumble, frowning. “I can’t drink all of it. What kind of question is that, for fuck’s everloving sake?” 

Nika looks at me with an equal furrow. However, that’s his MO, and mine is decidedly not. I have been known to grin maniacally once or twice. “One that needs answering.” 

The light flickers above our heads. It casts a sudden light onto his face, and shines a weak light onto the hazel eye and the scar on his nose and cheek. Ouch. His lips are pulled in a tight line, his short, black hair in disarray, a stark contrast to the finery of the clothes he’s wearing - courtesy of his hosts here in Ishgard. 

For a Warrior of Light, he is very gloomy and dark. An asshole, too. You’d think the Warrior of Light, of all people, would be a hero, but no, we’re stuck with a perpetually frowning asshole. What a joy. 

“What do you want? Move, I need that desk.” I place the overfilled cup down as roughly as I can. “There’s no fucking coffee here except the one on the table, and that’s mine.”

“I paid you a compliment,” he says, unmoving. “You could at least say thank you. You nobles should have manners.” 

“Je suis plein de gratitude. I know you paid me a compliment, but the question later made no sense so that had to be addressed first.” 

Nika looks at the gun again. He taps his fingers against the wood in a rhythm, three taps forward, one tap backward, three strong, one a glide, then in reverse. He then looks at his feet and takes a deep breath. “Minfilia is better at this sort of thing. She knows how to talk to you higher classes.” 

“Minfilia?” Who the fuck is this Minfilia woman? I readjust my goggles, and push the tickling curl away from my skin. Is she his lover, his sister? His friend? I can’t imagine him caring about anyone, including himself. From what little he’s been here in the Manufactory, a stray taken in by Stephanivien’s brightness much like me, all he did is make nonsense sentences and antagonize everyone. 

“Someone very dear to me. But she isn’t here, and neither is Alphinaud, so you’re stuck with me.” 

Alphinaud? Oh yeah, one of the other wards. The elezen kid. Whoever did his braid deserves to be fired because it’s needlessly messy and terrible. “Which would be fine, if you stopped speaking in riddles. Now can I sit, Warrior of Light, or will you clean my likeable gun for me? I’m not making you coffee.”

“In riddles? I’m not–” Nika frowns yet again. “Have your gun, whats-your-face.” 

“Cassander. Cassander de Dzemael.” 

“Cassander,” he says, like he’s testing the name. I look down at him. 

The light flickers. Something crosses his face, and his eyes look painfully vulnerable for a moment, and he’s tapping his fingers in the same rhythm again. 

“Why are you here, Nika?” I ask. I don’t know why my voice becomes so gentle. Maybe because I’m towering over him, and if I kept the hard edge, it would scare him off, not that I care about that. Maybe if I spoke gentler, he’d buck less under every question. Maybe he’d even start making sense. 

Or maybe the images of my mother’s hard voice echo in my head, like a hammer to the anvil. Now it is my turn to grip the table until my nail beds go a little pale. Her shouts and her yells, her derisive comments, her hard eyes and her pointed anger, and her looming, Halone’s ass, the looming! Do I sound like that? Do I sound as rough as she does? 

Nika’s quiet for a while. He keeps looking at his hands, rough and harsh. “That’s none of your business,” he rasps, but moves so that I could sit. “If someone needs me, they don’t know where to look.” 

I sit and take a long sip of my coffee. “Just mind the pillow, then. And try not to interrupt. This is something of a sacred ritual, you see. Halone-ordained. When you go to church, they tell you you must clean your gun or else she will smite you, or something.” 

He huffs. 

“Or so I hear,” I add with a shrug. “I’m not frequently in church.” 

The light flickers. 

“Minfilia would also laugh at that,” Nika says. I still have no idea who this Minfilia is, but she’s welcome to laugh at my jokes, wherever she is. “Will they fix the fucking thing?”

I take a sip of coffee. “Don’t think so. It’s rather cute. On and off. We all like weird things, I think, and my particular weird thing is this broken little lamp. Besides, I’m sure Stephanivien will notice at some point or another. When it dies, probably.”

“He’s the one making these guns, I’d rather he didn’t make me a faulty one,” Nika shrugs. “But if he sees, it’s whatever. It’s just annoying. You asked me earlier why I’m here. I was drawn to the gun. I think it has a nice shot.” He pauses. “I’m sure that the Fortemps family can pay for one of these.”

“Pretty sure they can, yeah. This one’s mine, though.” 

“I’m not in the habit of stealing people’s weapons.” 

I lift a brow. “Never said you were.” 

Nika shakes his head and heads for the door. The light flickers and he looks up. “Someone should really fix the damn thing,” he says, a little less angry than before. He’s then gone, tucking his waistcoat tighter for warmth, and I watch him go before he’s part of the shadows and I can take out my tools. 

We all like weird things. Some of us like long-barreled guns. Some of us like women named Minfilia, and speaking in riddles. And who knows? Maybe this broken little lamp refuses to die because it likes us, too. 

Halone works in weird fucking ways. 

#ffxiv #nero plays ffxiv #inspo birb has come to town #nika perseis #cassander inteus #stephanivien de haillenarte #heavensward #ffxiv writing #ffxiv fic #ffxiv wol #ishgard #this crossover needed to happen and i will be pondering the orb that it is for the forseeable future. thanks gide

[i-mybrunettelady]

my future will listen to me

Summary: Alysannyra meets her patron goddess, Lyssa, at long last. Content warnings: None Spoilers: HoT & LWS3 Note: My piece for the @gw2-zine! Go check out the world of my lovely collaborators, and go follow the zine blog! Happy zine release day!

I 

Everyone’s dressed the same, in the same white robe. It’s designed so that it’ll never be worn outside of the ceremony and outside of this one moment in a child’s life, which makes the fine silver embroidery on it that much more meaningful. Alysannyra cannot fathom how it was made - they’d just taken her measurements one day and three weeks later, this gown appeared on their door. She doesn’t even try. Instead, she wears it with as much pride as she can, not knowing where her blessings lie yet. She wears her hair down like everyone else and she tries to not hate how it blends her in with a whole generation of eight-year olds in the watchful eyes of the high society of Divinity’s Reach. 

There are two children before her. She can feel the stares of the proud parents in the shadows of the grand church. She can’t turn, not now, because the question she needs to answer can’t be found in their expectant and somber silence. Murals cast a green light on the pale hair of a boy next to her, but he doesn’t seem unsure. Nervous, maybe, but not unsure. 

Anyone would be nervous in the presence of gods. Their statues cast large shadows in their absence. And the children are to kneel before the one whose gifts they have and go into their church’s fold. It’s no small task, but if Alysannyra knows anything, it’s that she can’t cower under the burden of it. So she stands with her back straight, in a white robe that tickles her ankles from the early morning breeze, and she doesn’t turn to her family. 

Instead, she looks between Lyssa and Balthazar, trying to chase where the feeling in her heart is leading her. So far, the pull’s stronger with Lyssa, but Nyra doesn’t have magic. She isn’t worried. She’s only eight; nobody has magic yet. But some have a better idea of what it might be than others. A child walks over to kneel before Melandru. A priest accepts the handle they’d been carrying and places it by Her feet. Green magic swirls around them and it’s done. 

A clicking sound of hundreds of little heels echoes against the stone floor as they all make one step forward. 

A choice has to be made, and soon. Alysannyra carries her head high, taller than most other kids already, and stares at Lyssa’s graceful form in the center of the Six. Pinks and purples of the vitrage behind her twin forms cast an inviting light that seems to twist and bend in strange shapes, as if to spite the harmony that doesn’t seem perturbed by them. Balthazar’s helmet feels comfortable; Alysannyra, too, will one day wear a helmet, as a member of the Seraph. Its weight feels irrelevant, necessary, part of the regalia as much as the white robe is. She can almost feel the pressure of the hot metal in her bare hands and she feels the war call to her. 

The blonde-haired boy steps forward and steadily walks towards Grenth. He offers the candle, if a little clumsily, and kneels as an unsettling magic twirls around him. Alysannyra watches when his eyes widen just slightly, feeling the magic on his skin, and that is done, too. He is now a member of the Church of Grenth, potential necromancer in the making. He moves away with that knowledge, and now it’s Alysannyra’s turn. 

She doesn’t move quite yet. The limited time she had to choose wasn’t enough, but she can’t ruin this. Her family’s reputation, at least for a season, is at stake, and that little feeling in her chest that burns every time someone calls her Lady Ainsaph, too. She takes a deep breath, looks once more, stares into the eyes of the statues, and turns right. She is a daughter of Ascalon, a daughter of war, and Balthazar would be fitting. 

She lifts one foot off the ground when something in her gut screams no. She holds her head high as she suddenly turns left and walks down to where Lyssa is, candle in hand. Clamor of the people is silenced by the determined clicking of her heels, but she feels at peace. 

Come, daughter, the statue seems to say. Part of her knows this will make people talk, but in a strange way, she looks forward to it. She looks forward to the chaos a slight movement of feet will cause, and lifts her head even higher. 

And when she finally kneels and feels the magic seep into her skin, Alysannyra knows she’s made the right choice. Let them talk, let them gawk. 

At least she’s not just a simple Lady Ainsaph anymore, even if the rebellion is as small as this. 

II

Lyssa’s Reliquary is a fucking maze. Shelves of stone that house both man and monster shaped horrors would be enough to disorient most people, and such feeling is only made worse by the little portals that pop up like zits in the most random fucking places. Nyra hates them the most, even though she’s trying to stay level headed in the face of illusions that remind her of all the bad things she’s done and all the blood on her hands. 

But portals don’t disorient her. The chaos of the reliquary only bothered her for mere seconds before she found the rhythm in this place and she’s been riding it ever since. Renira tries to keep up, visibly struggling. Nyra traverses the sacred space like she was born to do it, and maybe she was. Maybe at birth, Lyssa watched from wherever She is now and pointed Her clawed hand (because in Nyra’s mind, Lyssa’s hands have always been clawed) in her direction so she could pass through Her reliquary once she grew up. 

It’s a comforting thought, in a way. It’s the only comfort she has when she slices through a tortured, gruesome vision of Apatia, dead by Nyra’s own hand. It’s the sole thing keeping her sane when she falls through yet another portal to escape the grasp of an illusory Mordrem Trahearne. 

“Where to now? How do we get down?” Renira shouts, wiping sweat off her brow. She swallows when she looks down at the ground below, but it’s the only sign of distress she offers. Nyra’s getting just slightly better at reading her. Or maybe she just lets Nyra see. Her eyes, golden like a cat’s in the stifling, dark chaos around them, don’t betray anything but a grim determination. 

“I think I know the way down,” Nyra says. “It won’t end with us falling to our deaths, hopefully. I’m getting quite a feel for this place.” 

“Of course you are,” Renira replies. “You’re about as chaotic as this reliquary is.” She gives a small smile. “It suits you, after all.” 

“Ever the charmer, Sulver,” Nyra shakes her head. In another life, they might have developed a romance following their brief hookup in Ebonhawke years ago, and the thought of exploring this place with a lover sounds romantic until she remembers she killed her actual lover in Maguuma. Now, it's a flaring ache that makes her look away in shame. 

“You’re alright, Nyra,” Renira says, strangely gentle. She places a gloved hand on Nyra’s shoulder and though she can’t feel the comfort, she feels undeserving of such sentiment. She’s never really emoted well, but she supposes a lifetime of spying on people makes it easy to identify emotions, regardless of expression or lack thereof. 

Nyra shakes her hand off. “Let’s go,” she says. Renira simply nods. 

But before they can make a single step, a big voice booms in the wind. “That is, in fact, the correct way, Alysannyra Ainsaf! It’s taken you a lot less time than I’d anticipated, too.” 

Nyra’s heart sinks to her feet. She doesn’t need to see to know who it is - the goddess Herself, as much in the flesh as they come these days, and She sounds more than a little smug about it all. 

It takes her a moment to find her voice. “Hail, Lyssa,” she says loudly. A part of her hates how uncertain she sounds, but to make up for it, she turns to the direction of Lyssa's voice. She can’t see Her, of course; mortals can’t see gods. Nyra remembers the story of Malchor. She likes her ability to see, thank you very much. She remembers how anguished his ghost was, howling Dwayna’s name like an injured beast.

And maybe she’s like that, too, alive yet forced to walk with guilt and grief eating away at her spirit and her bones. Because she tried to jump into the sea below not that long ago. In Lyssa’s temple, her mind cruelly supplies and Nyra shivers beneath her armor.  

Can she even bear to look Lyssa in the eye now? 

“Formal,” Lyssa says. “There is no need, daughter. I think you’re right at home. Would you be so formal with your parents?” 

Nyra sits down. Renira watches, unsure of what to do, and she signals her to do the same. “If I’m at home, goddess,” Nyra says, “then I’m sure you won’t mind if I bring a guest?” 

“Your mesmer friend? She can stay. Her magic is in my domain, though her blessings are, funnily enough, not. What is your name, mesmer?” 

“Renira, goddess,” she says cautiously. 

“Illusory,” Lyssa replies. “Just like it should be.” 

Renira stiffens and digs her nails in her gloves, but her face remains calm. “Yes, goddess.” 

Nyra wants to ask what that is all about, but knows she needs to tread cautiously, too. Her head’s too exhausted and heavy for two mind games at once. Besides, she needs Renira as an ally here and she’s not stupid enough to risk it by asking questions like this. 

“Lyssa, I have a question,” Nyra says. She swears she can see the wind around them move to face her and tilt a little to the side in curiosity. “You invited me here in a dream. You spoke to me when you sensed that we were backed into a corner in our search, so it stands to reason that you know what we’re after. If I may, what information do you have on Balthazar’s whereabouts?” 

Lyssa’s laughter echoes like a thousand drums, and Nyra digs her clawed gauntlets into her thighs to not cover her ears. She can feel Renira looking at her, maybe bewildered, maybe with that ever present calm, but she doesn’t want to turn away now. A part of her knows she should be more humble, now that she has blood on her hands that will never go away as long as she’s alive, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t answer that little voice in her head that slaps the notion away like a gnat. 

“Oh, you’re brave!” Lyssa says as laughter dies on Her windy lips. “Humanity hasn’t produced a person this fearless in a long, long while.” 

“That’s what happens when you have nothing to lose,” Nyra says. Her throat becomes tight and her eyes prickle with tears. “I tried to jump from Your temple not that long ago. I think I’ve earned the right to ask questions directly.” 

“I know you did,” Her voice becomes quieter. Of course She knows. “Your mind is still in chaos. It will be until your death. You placed any peace for yourself at the altar of glory long ago.” The wind blows forward, and a ghostly hand cups Nyra’s cheek. It’s cold and unsettling and it makes her skin crawl. She breathes out and closes her eyes tightly. Her heart feels like it wants to beat out of her chest. “Was it worth it?” 

Nyra’s quiet for a while. Tears slide down her skin, burning, yet the ghostly fingers wipe them away. She feels the heaviness of her armor, the tickling of her hair that was once a flag behind her and that now barely reaches her shoulders. Her shoulder aches from the fighting, her heart aches from the evil she’s done, all in the name of her own glory and this fucking world that she’s judged to be worthy of Trahearne’s life. She feels claws softly digging into the sweaty skin of her cheek, as sharp as the ones on her hands. 

Nyra tears light with them and makes it her own. If Lyssa draws blood, that too would belong to Nyra. 

Nyra opens her eyes. “Yes.” 

Lyssa runs a hand through her hair. “I’d hunt you down if you answered any differently,” She simply says. “I sent you that dream because I knew you would be able to stand up to Balthazar. You, daughter, and nobody else. You will either kill him or die trying.” She then lets go and Nyra catches her breath fully again, like a pressure has been lifted.

“I only need to track him down, then,” Nyra says, with a renewed fire in her chest. “So, tell me what you know, goddess.” 

III

She does find Balthazar in the end. These days, the memory of him doesn’t burn so painfully as it did at first. The scars he left on her arms and her legs and on the skin of her stomach and lower back remain hidden under clothes, but Nyra knows they’re there. 

She’s used to them, somehow. They’re her shrine to her heresy, after all. In her home chapel, his place is empty because she carries the reminder of him on her skin. And if she, in her grief-induced craze, had her way, she’d bring down every single statue of him in Tyria by hand. 

Let her be the only shrine he’ll ever have left, on a wartorn path to erase everything else. Sometimes, she remembers Lyssa asking her if it’s worth it. If she thought she knew pain then, when she stood before her goddess, she should’ve considered her answer a little more. 

But Nyra knows pain now. She knows the pain of grief, of loss, of a broken faith, and her answer remains the same. Gods have left Tyria, but this answer is the closest thing she has to a divine oath. 

It’s always worth it.

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #inspo birb has come to town #alysannyra #renira sulver #lyssa #gw2 lyssa #coyh zine #gw2 writing #gw2 fic #gw2 commander #:333 ITS OUT LOOK AT MY BABYGIRL SHE'S OUTTT #i need everyone to tell me what they think of lyssa asap #and hers and nyra's relationship #two feral women having a mother-daughter relationship of sorts #gahhh i love it sm #gw2 human #humanposting

[i-mybrunettelady]

scenes of an arson site

Summary: Pact airships go down, taken by Mordremoth's vines. Elandrin is on one of them. Content warnings: mentions of violence and all around bad times. Spoilers: HoT

I

It starts with a headache. 

Then there’s screaming. Thorns, so much fucking screaming. 

And then the airships go down. 

II

It takes him a minute to realize he’s conscious again. His eyes refuse to see clearly, so he closes them. He’s not in this primordial darkness anymore - there’s light, so much light around him, flashes of color, sounds he can’t parse out. His mind feels heavy. 

A thud of footsteps. A person comes close. “Is he awake?” He can’t say who asks the question. It’s all a jumbled mess. 

“Looks like it. He isn’t still anymore.” 

“Maybe he lost his marbles, like the rest of them.” 

“Spirits, no! Shut it! Arcanist Elandrin, are you with us? Can you hear me?”

Elandrin.. Elandrin.. That’s a cool name. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He squints at the all-consuming daylight and mouths the name again. Elandrin.. Elandrin.. 

Something in his mind tugs as realization sharply comes. Elandrin screams as he’s suddenly thrown back into his body that lays in his own sap, his ribs burn, and the tug holds for a bit until there’s a hand on his forehead and he slumps down again, panting like a sylvan hound. 

“Told you he’s with us,” a norn woman voices. Elandrin looks at her. She has blood on her face. “Here, drink some water.” She makes a face. “Plants need water, don’t they?” 

He swallows the cold liquid greedily and loudly. A bird screams above him. It smells like ash, blood, fire, and cooked meat. His hands scramble to get a hold of the flask as he downs the rest of it. 

“What the fuck happened?” he croaks and frowns at how wretched his voice sounds. He’s covered in a blanket; he feels the remaining pieces of his torn homegrown clothes tickle his bare bark. He assumes the blanket is more for modesty than for warmth. Have these people never seen a dick before? He dares not laugh at their moral constraints, if only because he knows it’ll sound like he’s choking.

“Oh! You’re awake!” a human woman in Vigil gear turns with a disapproving face. “Are you one of them?” 

“One of who, for fuck’s sake?” 

“You planty fuckers all went insane on that ship and almost killed us all!” the human all but yells and Elandrin snickers. 

“I am not fucking insane, you dimwit. I have no idea what’s going on, but I do know that my ribs hurt and that I need a mender.” He looks around and sees he’s the only sylvari in the camp. Aside from the yelling bitch, there’s a norn woman who gave him the flask, a bald asura with yellow eyes, and another norn, who’s cradling a broken arm. 

“Go find one yourself, you wretched Mordrem,” she adds and Elandrin sits up harshly, only to bend forward as the sharp pain pierces his ribs. His mind aches with a new weight he knows hasn’t been there before. Part of him wants to be afraid, but he’s too offended to care about it. 

Him, a Mordrem? Him, a sylvari, a Dreamer, secondborn of the Pale Tree, to serve Mordremoth of all things?! Him, an ugly monster? 

“Juliana, stop,” the norn woman says wearily and extends her hands to help him lay down. He shakes his head and groans his way onto the ground. “He isn’t a Mordrem. He’s one of us. If he was, he would’ve killed us right away.” She laughs nervously. “Wouldn’t be an issue for an elementalist of his caliber.” 

“What’s your name?” Elandrin asks the norn woman. 

“Skadi. Skadi Runarskin.” 

“Mm, and which order?”

“Priory, Arcanist. I.. I attended your classes on fire elemental magic techniques before the airships sailed.” He looks at her, and her big, wide eyes and the dark circles under them. Brown hair sticks to her forehead. Her face is utterly unmemorable. 

“And where are the airships now?” 

Skadi waves her hands. “Gone,” she says with a gravel in her voice. “Vines came from the sky and dragged us down. Sylvari on board, they.. They started screaming and attacking people. I don’t remember much.” 

Neither does he. All he remembers is the falling and the screaming. “Huh,” he says. “Unless Juliana shuts her mouth up like a good little girl, I will start attacking too.” 

Juliana growls. “If I ever see a sign, I’m killing you.” 

“Just try.” 

Oh, but his body’s tired. He lies back, feels his ribs throb, and blinks at the sun. 

I can make it stop hurting. 

The fact the voice isn’t his own should scare him. But he’s too tired to be scared. The tug lessens and he falls into a temporary, dreamless sleep. 

III

The man with the broken hand is the first to go. His death was quick, or so Elandrin saw. They’d attracted a Mordrem ambush; thankfully, there were so few of them, now ashes on the sparkly, green grass, but they got the guy well before they could become so. All it took was one swing and he was gone. 

He had no chances anyways. 

They’re making a burial for him. Elandrin never really understood burials, the same way he doesn’t understand namedays or marriage. Or surnames. He chooses to sit while they recite some meaningless words for his soul, Skadi, Juliana and the asura, and watch. The dead norn’s gear is so ill-fitted that Elandrin can only steal the shirt that reaches his knees, but it’s solid gear. As solid as gear comes when you’re lost in the jungle, anyways. 

“Raven guide your spirit, my friend,” Skadi whispers. Elandrin wonders why she’s sad. She hardly knew him. And even if she did, he’s a casualty of war. Grief has no place here. He thinks of Trahearne, and swallows a lump in his throat. 

Where is his friend, anyway? 

“They will find us here,” he says. Juliana looks at him. She looks like she wants to throw her helmet at him. 

“This was our second ambush in a week,” she snaps. “You’re attracting them. You’re sending out pheromones, or whatever the fuck you plants have. They’re sensing you like a fucking dog.” 

“Sylvari don’t have pheromones, not like you people do,” he replies and presses his hand on the ground to get up. His ribs haven’t stopped hurting, but he’ll be damned if he lets them see that. “Maybe they’re hunting you.”

I can make it stop hurting. Come to me.

The voice has been a constant, too. It came after the tug; he feels like it eats parts of his mind in morsels, like pieces of Elandrin-shaped fruit, a darkness he can’t shake off, no matter how hard he tries. It sends terror down his spine at night, when his glow is the only thing keeping him away from the darkness around him. It makes him curl in on himself, in spite of the pain, and breathe in the grass and the leaves and the blood to keep him from giving into it. 

The voice promises freedom from that, too. But it doesn’t feel like his own, so he doesn’t trust it. He doesn’t trust Juliana, or Skadi, or the little armored rat. He doesn’t trust anything but the pain in his ribs, the pressure in his gut, the ache in his body, and what remains of his mind. 

Get away from me, he says to the voice. 

Then it roars and he has to bite down his hand to stop from screaming. 

Mine, mine, mine, it roars, and he cries into the grass and the leaves and the grave of a dead norn. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Juliana says. 

I can kill her for you, if you’d let me. 

Skadi cries later. Elandrin watches the light catch on her tears and feels the urge to lick them off her face. Does her blood taste sweet? His tastes like honey; his is a desert. Norn blood probably tastes like licking metal. 

Be mine, Elandrin, and you won’t have to cry anymore. The world will be yours to burn. 

He resists, and cries anyway. 

IV

The asura disappears next. Dead, alive, Elandrin doesn’t know; the fucking jungle wants to kill them, and they’re running for their lives, and his concentration is shamefully weak as is, so he’s too focused on the magical warmth on his fingertips to notice where small things are. It’s like a bug. He never bothered to learn their name either - asura names make him snarl as he’s saying them. 

They’re irrelevant, just as the leaves he’s crunching beneath his feet are irrelevant. It’s getting harder to tell the difference anyways. 

“We should go back for them,” Skadi says. Her voice sounds distorted, high, and her words are hard to make out. He’s squinting, trying to catch the features of her face. It reminds him of a tree - brown on brown on brown, like a sylvari he once knew. “They could need our help!” 

“It’s no use,” Elandrin says. His voice sounds off to his own ears; he blinks himself awake from a stupor. Skadi’s face is long and scarred, she has overgrown eyebrows and dark circles around her bloodshot eyes. “The jungle has them already.” 

“How do you know it, Arcanist?” Skadi cries, hitting her fist on the ground. “Eissa’s research isn’t yet finished! They studied dwarven magic. They had siblings back in Rata Sum. How are we supposed to go back to them and tell them Eissa is dead?” 

Eissa can be reunited with their siblings when all is returned to me. 

Elandrin digs his fingers in his ribs. The bark is dark, sensitive to touch and he growls - in pain, at the voice, he doesn’t know. 

Go fuck yourself, I’m not becoming one of yours. He vaguely recalls that sylvari can become Mordrem. His chest tightens and he looks up at the sky, the clouds, the all powerful sun, and the endless expanse of tall trees and breathes. 

He almost fits there. Those leaves up above look better than his foliage does now, decaying, half pulled out, struggling to glow the way it did. He wants to be a tree, he wants to not think, he wants to have beautiful leaves again. He catches sight of one half singed leaf and breathes out. 

He wants to have beautiful leaves again. 

“The same way we were supposed to go back to our siblings in the Grove and tell them our bodies are now their live experiment,” he says darkly. “They have to pay for that.” 

Skadi swallows. Juliana sighs and pulls out a gun. 

“I should shoot you,” she says. “You’re destroying yourself. You’re obviously deranged. Soon enough, you’ll be one of the Mordrem.” 

Elandrin snarls. “Just try it.” 

The asura can pay. Juliana can pay. Let me in, and they can all pay. 

Elandrin gasps. Night spreads around them, big and tight and oppressive. His head feels like it’s about to burst. His mind feels like a half-eaten apple that’s home to a couple of worms. He bites his hand and cries when the pressure tightens and holds, and between the two sensations, he falls back into the refreshing pool of darkness beneath. 

When he mercifully wakes up, he runs. 

V

The jungle burns around him. The jungle burns, and his eyes prickle, and his skin feels like it’s on fire. He doesn’t know where he is, or what he’s doing; he watches the miserable, half-dead leaves on his head dangle before his eyes. 

The struggle and the pain can stop, little one. All you have to do is let me in. 

He roars and digs his nails into the ground. They break and he digs even harder, yells until his throat hurts, hurls sounds in the air as the dead remains of his enemies burn around him in a half-circle. Mordremoth screams, but Elandrin screams harder. 

He’ll scream himself to death if he has to. 

The ground shakes as someone approaches. Fire doesn’t seem to hurt them. There’s a hand on his face, and claws that don’t tear, and Elandrin stops screaming. His throat burns as he cries, and writhes in the corner, in the ashes of those that wanted to kill him, and he smells sap around him and is just aware enough to know it’s his own. 

“Master has been looking for you,” the person says. “You’re still struggling.” They sound gentle and Elandrin sobs harder with as much breath as he has left. 

“Please,” he rasps out. It all hurts. His head, his mind, his body, it’s all one big point of pain. 

The person kneels down. Elandrin looks at them. Hands hold their face, and they’re big. It’s blurry, but it’s as if the fingers part and reveal the soft browns of what’s a sylvari eye. 

“It can stop, the pain,” the person says softly. “Just let go.” And then, in a voice he thought long gone, “I hate seeing you in pain even now, El.” 

He doesn’t know what it is. One last punch comes from deep within, from the memories he tries so hard to bury down, hazy in the smoke. He grasps it and holds onto it. The figure then leans in, licks his tears with his forked tongue, and presses his petal-soft lips to Elandrin’s forehead. 

“Adryn,” Elandrin croaks. His whole body shakes. He loved Adryn, once. He loved their nights together. He loved the way Adryn laughed. He loved holding Adryn’s hand and making him fire constellations. He loved the way Adryn’s bark felt against his own, naked, his lips on Elandrin’s face, and the way he held him close, and he can almost hear himself laugh again the same way he did then. The sound comes distorted, off, and he can hear his own angry words and the tremble in Adryn’s voice. 

He loved Adryn, once. But as he loves all things, himself included, that too ended up in flames. 

“All you have to do is let go,” Adryn says. 

Elandrin stares at the night sky, caught between death and life. The fire can’t catch him, but he hopes it will. 

With one last push, he wishes the jungle would burn down with him. 

VI

“Arcanist Elandrin! We found him!” 

“Is he dead?” 

“Don’t think so! Come on, I need a hand over here! Hurry up! Do we have menders on the squad? I repeat, do we have menders on the squad?” 

There are voices. Steps. Rustle of leaves. Pants of worry, and hurt. Metal against metal. Clinking of armor. 

“Elandrin, are you with me?” 

He struggles to locate the voice. His eyes might as well be sealed shut. 

“I’m here. For fuck’s sake. Just listen to my voice, okay? I know you’re with us. Just listen to my voice, yeah. Good. Like that. I’m here. We have menders on the squad. We’ll get you up in no time. It’s just some healing magic. Feels a little invasive. Not much I can do about it. I’m sure you people have a better word for it.” There’s a hand on his face. He sighs as it guides him. The pain subsides. “Elandrin? Yeah, knew you were with us. Dwayna have fucking mercy on you. Who fucked you up like that?” 

His eyes open slowly. There are claws on his face, but the face that greets him isn’t monstrous, nor the eye familiar. The face is pale, human, with bright, purple eyes. 

“It’s me, Alysannyra. I know I’m not your favorite person, but who fucking cares right now. I’m healing you until the menders come. You’re not dying on me - you hear me? You’re not dying on the Pact. You’ll want to singe my eyebrows off later, but I’m not letting you die, you hear me?” 

Alysannyra..? 

“You’re coming to. Great. Glad to see you’re as destructive when you’re unconscious as you are when you’re awake. All this ash is very becoming of you.”

He raises a hand. It shakes but he holds it up. Alysannyra.. He can’t recall a single good thing about her, but right now, her body feels soft and safe. He touches her nose and his hand drops down again. 

“Not a mordrem,” he says weakly, when someone else kneels down beside them. 

“Good to hear. Thought I’d have to put you down if you suddenly go all monstrous on us.” 

He shakes his head. 

He made it. He’s alive. He could cry, if his body willed it. 

Not a mordrem, he thinks to himself one last time before darkness takes him again. 

But this time, the hands he falls into are safe. 

#gw2 #inspo birb has come to town #elandrin aien #vague alysannyra #gw2 writing #gw2 fic #guild wars 2 #gw2 hot #heart of thorns #gw2 sylvari #gw2 mordrem #IT'S OUT IT'S OUTTT

[redwayfarers]

(you) restless son

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Nika/Artoirel Characters: Nika Perseis (WoL), Artoirel de Fortemps, Minfilia Warde (mentioned) Rating: Mature (direct references to sex, though the scene is fade to black) Words: 1795 Spoilers: Heavensward spoilers read on ao3

Nika’s visits to Ishgard have been few and far between recently, but every time he does go there, he makes sure to go straight to the Fortemps manor. It’s become something of a home, if you can count the presence of the few people he’s bonded with in this whole frozen hellhole. He hasn’t had a home in a long while, least of all in a person. It’s a strange feeling and something entirely too tender for Nika’s harsh hands, but it settled under his skin and it’s not going anywhere. 

He can’t complain all that much, really, when it affords him unlimited access to Artoirel. He likes Emmanellain just fine, and Edmont makes for a nice dinner buddy when he isn’t being a horrible parent to his sons.  But Artoirel is the heart of that whole oversized house for Nika; it’s his face rising amidst everyone else that makes his shoulders relax and his jaw unclench. When did he clench his jaw so much anyway? And more importantly, why is he noticing that? 

No matter. What matters is that time after he settles in his room, after he eats dinner, or lunch, or whenever he happened to burst upon their door like a cannonball, when he and Artoirel go to the grand salon with the big piano, drinks in hand, and find comfortable places on one of the couches. What matters is the way Artoirel loosens his collar, opens his throat up a little, and Nika can’t help but look at the way it bobs ever so slightly under his gaze. 

“Do I have something on my… throat?” Artoirel asks, confused, red in the face, and Nika looks at the glass in his hand. 

“No,” he says and rubs the side of his neck. “I just think you look better without the cravat.” 

“Such are the fashions of Ishgard, Nika.” 

“Fuck the fashions of Ishgard, Artoirel.” Nika looks at his own shirt, open at the front, and the length of his white boots. Artoirel follows suit; his eyes linger on the exposed skin of Nika’s chest. “Some of them, anyway.” 

“Not all of us can make that shirt look good,” Artoirel comments quietly. “You and Lord Stephanivien, perhaps. As for myself? The cravates are that much presentable.”

“Bah, you’re too prim and proper.” Nika puts a foot down. The heels echo in the otherwise silent room like a battle trumpet. It may be the drink he’s had, but his next words come out offensively shamelessly. “I like the way your collarbones look.” 

Artoirel huffs amicably and shakes his head. “You may look at them as you please, then,” he replies, though his voice is colored by something Nika doesn’t dare name. 

“Thank you for the permission.” Nika says as he downs the rest of his drink and pours himself another glass. “I will now proceed to indulge myself. At the grand piano, of course. Why would we go in the grand salon if not to play the fucking piano?” 

“I did want to show you a composition I have been working on in my leisure time,” Artoirel says. He sounds almost uncertain, half the size he usually is on the battlefield, or in the political arena of Ishgard. “What?” 

“You’re afraid I’m gonna hate it or something? Is that why you sound like you’re a kid meeting your idol for the first time?” 

Artoirel laughs in disbelief. “Nika, do you realize even an inkling of what weight your opinion carries? You are the Warrior of Light, the slayer of Nidhogg. You rode into Ishgard on a dragon - the first individual to have done so in history. You are one of Eorzea’s best living bards. Compared to you, I am but playing pretend.”  

Nika blinks. “Didn’t wanna be that hero you bring up,” he says. “If it was up to me, I’d be playing my little lute and singing about other people. But no, Minfilia had to use my arrow shooting prowess to kill a primal or two and now here I am.” The thought sticks to his skin even though he vehemently tries shaking it away. His heart aches for Minfilia still; the love he’s nursed for her feeds into his bloodstream. His knees will forever ache from kneeling at her feet, and the memories of her soft voice and gentle smiles and kind eyes will nurse them back to health. 

But recently, in the midst of all the grief he wears around his neck like a collar, he’s found it in himself to be angry at her. Angry she didn’t stop sending him when he asked her to. Angry she kissed his tears away only to send him off to his potential death afterwards. Angry she never told him, no, stop loving me, not until she fucking died and stayed in the aether, and he had to go see fucking Hydaelyn herself just so he could hear it. 

Artoirel does nothing of the sort. If anything, Nika feels like he’s stringing him along, pulling at his heart that wants nothing more than Nika’s presence. Artoirel never asked him to be the hero. Everything since he’s arrived in Ishgard has been Nika’s choice. Any hurt he feels about that shit he can lay at his own feet and use it to cut open his heart again. 

Nika drowns the entirety of his glass in one chug. “You give yourself too little credit,” he says. “Too fucking little.” He curls a hand around Artoirel’s slender shoulders to run his fingers over those biteable collarbones.

“Nika,” Artoirel goes to stand up just as Nika’s hand bends around his shoulders, and the height difference makes Nika take a step forward and his hand slides down to Artoirel’s waist. He holds it anyway. 

“Let’s go play the piano,” Nika says. His voice is gruff, stuffed to the brim with need and anger and yearning and the drunkenness of the whiskey and the warmth of Artoirel’s skin. “Let’s go play the fucking piano or I’m pinning you down on these overpriced floor covers.” 

Artoirel’s mouth opens and the tips of his ears burn bright red. His hand folds in a fist and he tries to look down, avoid Nika’s eyes, but the fact he’s tall as all fuck bites him in the ass so hard that he just ends up looking where he didn’t want to. Or did he want to? He shifts his body closer to Nika’s, hip to waist, and Nika’s fingers play over his shirt. 

“There’s a story,” he says. “I know of someone who supposedly had sex with her lovers in her grand salon and over the piano, specifically. That poor piano, I’d thought. Of course, I don’t normally follow that kind of rumor, but I’d overheard it and it stayed with me.” 

“Piano sex? What happened to walls, floors, or even good old fashioned beds?” Nika feels his face burn. Must be the drink, he thinks, even if he has to admit that Artoirel’s words are only making whatever need that’s already been here stronger. He doesn’t even know what Artoirel’s lips feel like, but he does know he wants to kiss them, and that Artoirel wants to kiss him too. 

It’s just never been this direct! Nika blames the whiskey, the open shirt, those delicious looking collarbones, Minfilia’s memory, Ishgard itself. He knows what it feels like - Estinien’s hands on his skin are a refreshed memory - but this is Artoirel; his Artoirel, the way Minfilia was never his, his to spend time with, his to kiss, his to enjoy, his to listen to him laugh. His to make Nika’s heart beat and warm up faster than any fire would. 

“I suppose she has had enough of those options by that point,” Artoirel shrugs, but his cheeks are still red, his hair’s in disarray, his lips are slightly parted, thin and pink, and those fucking collarbones are still taunting Nika like it’s their one job. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Nika replies, as if that makes any sense to the prior conversation. “And I want to kiss you so, so badly.” 

“I would very much like to kiss you too,” Artoirel replies, holding onto the edges of his self-control. Nika can feel his fingers ghost over the skin of his jaw and takes a deep breath not to groan from the way it sends sparks down his spine. The knowledge Artoirel wants him just as badly, right now, makes his belly tighten. “May I?” 

“Yes,” Nika breathes and Artoirel’s facing him, tall, relaxed, hair a dark halo around his head. His eyes are impossibly wide, impossibly big, and Nika rises on his tip toes and wraps himself around Artoirel’s body, like he was made to be here. Maybe he was. Maybe he was made to share breath with Artoirel de Fortemps for torturously long moments before their lips meet, maybe he was made to bury his fingers in his hair and pull him down on the couch. His body soars and he’s shaking with need and his heart beats wildly in his chest. 

And when their tongues touch, Nika claws at Artoirel’s back. I’m going to fuck this man tonight, he thinks, and it feels brash and crude but he can’t help himself. Artoirel moans into the kiss, and it only serves to make Nika’s skin even tighter. 

“I wanna fuck you,” Nika says between kisses, pulls on Artoirel’s hair. “Stop me if you need to, fuck, Artoirel, I want to bite your chest, and I want to make you feel good, I want–” 

“Yes,” Artoirel breathes out. His body’s shaking beneath Nika’s touch and Nika peppers his face with small kisses. “I want that too–” 

“Glad we agree,” Nika replies and steals the rest of his sentence in a deep kiss. Artoirel’s hand wraps around Nika’s waist but Nika uses the leverage to drag him beneath him and settle on his hips. From this angle, he looks even better. A prim and proper lord, commander of men, count de Fortemps, beneath him, already hard, messy from kisses, and Nika can’t help but groan. It’s not like he’s any better himself. He then leans down and kisses him softly, the way he never got to kiss Minfilia. 

But she isn’t here, is she? It’s just him and Artoirel, alive, in the flesh. And it’s an aching flesh, and Nika wants to kiss it senseless, and he wants to keep him close, keep him warm, safe, wants to make him happy and make him laugh. 

“Artoirel,” Nika says, because he can’t say anything else. And Artoirel kisses him back, presses his hands against Nika’s back, and somehow, he feels like he got the message just fine. 

Just like that, the rest of the world falls away.

#ffxiv #inspo birb has come to town #nika perseis #artoirel de fortemps #wolship #wol x artoirel #wol #warrior of light #hyur wol #ffxiv fic #ffxiv fanfic #now that housekeeping is done: #baby's first non-fluff is out to public pls be kind to me #this isn't smut but it's close #these two have eaten my braincells so this came to be #also not me posting at weird times. sad #heavensward spoilers #nika x artoirel #wolartoirel

[i-mybrunettelady]

dis moi qui tu hantes, je te dirai qui tu es

Summary: Peitha is processing things. Alysannyra tries to help, in her own way. Content warnings: mentions and slight descriptions of violence. Spoilers: SoTo (specifically Heitor's Gate)

Nayos is quiet, for once. The sounds of battle died down, and the combatants have settled into an uneasy wait, a calm before the storm. And that is a good thing, Peitha thinks. Troops need time to replenish, to rest. The wounded need time to nurse their injuries before they go to battle again. 

And the living need time to mourn the dead. 

Peitha isn’t entirely certain she’s grieving for Heitor. She doesn’t feel the ashy taste of grief on her tongue. Yet, when she told Arina and Alysannyra she needed time for reflection, she meant it. When she isn’t occupied with helping her army, Peitha is deep in thought, away from the people around her, taller and bigger than most. She almost feels like a pillar to them, and she knows she is, but the thought of it makes something in her chest tighten. 

What a strange concept. 

On one such day of calm, Peitha retires earlier than she usually does and goes to a little corner of the camp. There, she watches the fogs of Nayos dim the blues and the reds around her. A part of her wonders if the sight of Heitor’s mangled body would have been any different if it was hugged by this tender fog. The Wayfinder - nay, the Commander - is a fearsome enemy. She roared and tore through her cousin’s flesh, unrelenting. Her fingers moved in practiced motions to carve out weapons and chains of light, and not once did she stop to take a breath for more than a moment before she was back into the fray, with the same deadly strength. 

Yet, Alysannyra felt no joy when she walked away from Heitor’s corpse. She was emotionless, but Peitha knows that she wasn’t indifferent. I don’t take pleasure in death, she said later. I’m sorry for having to kill your cousin. 

Peitha told her she wasn’t in mourning. Yet, her thoughts turn to Heitor often, and she begins to wonder if she was being truthful. 

A bat of giant wings tears her from her thoughts. Peitha slowly raises her head up to see the round head of Alysannyra’s skyscale, Maurizia, peek from the edge of a tree. There’s a loud thud of steps as the Commander herself jumps down, freshly returned from her aerial patrol. She says something to her skyscale and the beast makes a happy, satisfied noise. 

“It’s hardly fair to leave all the duties of running this to Arina, Peitha,” Alysannyra says and Peitha hums. A moment too late, she realizes she was joking. 

“She is more than capable, Commander,” Peitha counters, trying to keep an even voice. Alysannyra laughs and steps out into the clearing. 

“You of all people here should know I’m something of a little shit, Peitha,” she says, amused. Peitha stares at her. “Staring isn’t going to deter me either. Stare at me all you like. I am, after all, the most beautiful of all out here.” 

“Be that as it may, Commander–” Peitha says and looks her over. The simplicity of her practical clothes does not take away from the attraction. If anything, it only makes the golden richness of her brown hair stand out against the dim nayosian sun, and she fits perfectly in the paleness of the horizon. “How has your patrol been?” 

Alysannyra squints. “I am a married woman, Peitha.” 

Peitha laughs. “I would be delighted to meet that husband of yours one day. But I am asking about your actual patrol. No ill tidings, I presume, given your.. rather cheerful disposition?” 

“None whatsoever. Eparch seems to be pissing his pants. Or buying time, which is more likely.” Alysannyra’s face grows dark. “He’d do well to be terrified by this point.” 

What an ally I’d found, Peitha thinks. “Heitor was weak,” she says. There’s that strange feeling again in her chest. “Cerus, less so. But Eparch is not.” 

“He too will end up like Heitor and Cerus,” Alysannyra says. “Are you having second thoughts?” She presses her fingers in a fist and takes a deep breath. 

“Me? No. I did not mean to tease your pride so.” 

“I think you did. But that is besides the point.” She releases her fist. “The patrol was uneventful. The only real threat to us right now is this fog, but that’s Nayos, and not much else.” She tilts her head. “Were you thinking of Heitor again?” 

Peitha pauses. “I have,” she says after a moment. “There is a reality where she joins us. There’s a reality in which you didn’t cleave her in half. But that reality is not this one.” 

“There’s also a reality in which I’m still insufferably proud and nineteen. There’s a reality in which I didn’t have to kill my husband. There’s a reality in which my daughter didn’t die and there’s a reality in which I am dead.” Alysannyra’s voice is resolute, strong, akin to a mountain. Her feet make strong steps on the blue grass beneath, and she’s looking at Peitha with her muted, purple eyes. “There is also a reality in which I am alive, both my husband and daughter are alive, and that so happens to be the reality in which Heitor made the wrong choice and died for it. That is also a reality where Irja is dead.” 

“I have been in your shoes, Peitha,” she then adds, quietly, but with no less resolve. “Believe me, I am every time I step before an army and become its face. I think of Irja, Ramses, Arina, and of every other face under my command. That is entirely normal. That means you are not like Eparch.” A pause. “That means you didn’t make the wrong choice, like Heitor.” 

Peitha nods. She knows she would have been Alysannyra’s target too if circumstances were different. That knowledge fills her with relief - that she is not - and also with an odd kind of understanding. Was she herself not digging through Alysannyra’s mind not that long ago? 

“Do you think I would have died, had I made the wrong choice?” Peitha asks. The light breeze carries Alysannyra’s hair to and fro, plays with the ends of her cape, and they stay in a silence that’s as vast as the clearing around them. 

“No,” the Commander says after a while. “Instead, I think it would haunt you. Sometimes, that’s a fate worse than death.”

Does Heitor’s death haunt her? There’s a reality in which Heitor made the right choice. There’s a reality in which Irja is alive, safe in their camp. She looks at Alysannyra once more. She has seen what haunts her. Peitha’s chest aches, and aches, and aches. 

“The right choices sometimes don’t feel good either,” Alysannyra adds, and then, conspiratorially, “I wouldn’t change a fucking thing about my life, actually. But I’m not right in the head. I don’t know what Kryptis consider right in the head, but maybe you aren’t either. And my best advice is to accept that, and to find as much peace in it as you can.” 

What peace? Since when has Alysannyra Ainsaf, the Commander, the Champion, the Wayfinder, the hero, the legend, ever been at peace? Peitha takes a deep breath. 

Does the same fate await her, too? 

“You are a curious creature, Alysannyra,” Peitha says at last. 

“I’m sorry if I wasn’t more helpful. But I don’t think you’d make much use of empty consolations. We are too similar for that, you and I.” 

Oh, you have been most helpful. Peitha blinks. “I need reflection, Commander.”

Alysannyra calls to her skyscale. The beast trots over happily and nuzzles her mistress’ arm. Alysannyra pets Maurizia’s snout for the effort. As she passes by, Peitha feels a hand on her shoulder. 

“I’ll take care of the camp,” she says and squeezes. Peitha doesn’t say anything and simply continues to sit on the ground, claws buried in grass. Wordlessly, Alysannyra’s gone, and before long, Peitha hears the greetings of welcome and barks of orders in the camp, and turns to look. 

Does the same fate await her, too? She needs some very, very deep reflection. 

#gw2 #inspo birb has come to town #soto spoilers #gw2 writing #alysannyra #peitha #gw2 commander #gw2 pact commander #guild wars 2 #gw2 soto #secrets of the obscure #HEHEHEHHEHEHHHEHEHHE I AM BACCC HAVE SOME NYRA AND PEITHA #OH HAVE SOME SPICII NYRA AND PEITHA #spicii in an emotional sense lmao they're not together nor do they have romantic feelings for one another #i love how similar they are #and how they can understand each other #hence. well. all this

[redwayfarers]

in the sun and in the snow

Fandom: Wayfarer Ship: Oya Cenric/Aeran Kellis Characters: Oya Cenric (@sunshinemage), Cassander Inteus, Aeran Kellis (mentioned) Rating: Teen Words: 1187 Spoilers: None! Rory did a little piece of their Oya and my Cass for OCkiss24, and I felt inspired, so I wrote a little thing. Hope you don't mind I borrowed Oya, Rory! It's a little gift for you, after all. Because Oya deserves love, joy and happiness with the dumbass elf they fell for. Happy Valentine's Day :) read on ao3 dividers by @saradika

It’s a summer’s day in the Spire. It’s not Covera, with its warm days where the only thing one can do is sit by the beach, but it’s not freezing cold either, so the wayfarers are in the courtyard, training, conversing with one another. Laughter echoes in the distance. Artanis feels more at home than Covera, in a lot of ways. 

In all honesty, a part of Oya doubted they’d ever have it in their lifetime. Much to their surprise, they were proven wrong. 

The only thing lacking in this bustling, jovial mood of life outside the norms of the world is the fact that Aeran isn’t here. Oya misses him terribly; months pass without them seeing each other, but it does little to lessen the ache in her chest whenever she sits in her room, alone, and thinks about what it would be like if he sat there with her. It’s a soft reverie - akin to a refreshing sip of water on a hot day, or a cup of mulled wine in winter - and also one that’s expanded recently. 

Aeran’s not simply sitting with them anymore. He’s kissing them. 

The notion of it almost startles them, but they welcome it. The thoughts of him smiling against their lips make their days pass faster at times. He promised he’d be here soon; all Oya can do is wait. They might not get to kiss him when he gets here, granted. Oya thinks she might just jump out of her skin if it does happen, in some alternate reality. She just wants him around, and she wants the cozy reverie of it, and the way he hugs her. 

In his absence, though, she’ll take the wayfarers and the people the world cast aside. So she enters the courtyard, runs her fingers through her hair, and starts making her way through the crowd. She passes by Cenric and a new apprentice, a big-eyed human girl with close cropped hair. 

Cenric gives Oya a nod of greeting and a fond smile. The girl also watches Oya, seemingly fascinated by their crest, and Cenric gives her a weak hit on the shoulder. 

“It’s rude to stare,” he says gruffly. Oya laughs. 

“M sorry,” the girl whispers, embarrassed. 

Life is good at the Spire. 

When they reach the smithy, they see a familiar splash of red hair towering over everyone else. Cassander is hard to miss, especially now that he’s in in his finest, artanisian summer attire - which Oya knows is nowhere as fine as what he would’ve worn in Vodena, a lifetime ago - and his hair pulled up and braided in a style that looks messy at the first glance, but betrays a lot of time upon closer inspection. Most jarring of all, however, is the fact that he looks like he wants to be anywhere else but here, Vodena included. 

“Cassander?” Oya pipes up, and he looks up from his boots to blink at them. His hand remains at the braid on his shoulder. 

“Oya! You’re a sight for sore eyes!” He swallows and laughs nervously. “Would you mind if I.. tasked you with something?” 

“Are you alright?” Oya asks. “What happened?” 

“Nothing special, I just– I needed to have my armor fixed, and the only available blacksmith was my now ex boyfriend. So I’m–” He laughs again, this time less like he’s about to cry and more like he’s making fun of himself. “Told myself, ‘Cassander, you’re a big boy, you can do this. Just say hello, thank you and goodbye and you’re on your merry fucking way.’ But no, I had to dress up, even. I was this close to lining my eyes, too. Why look miserable when you feel miserable, right?” 

Oya sighs and steps closer, to stand by him. They understand the feeling quite well. It’s the similar sort of tension that fills them when they think of kissing Aeran, but in reverse. Where Oya has to tell themself that kissing Aeran’s good, and that their head is messing with them, Cassander looks actively ready to jump off the window in Sero’s office. 

“So you want me to pick your armor up for you?” they say, and he nods curtly. 

“If you’d be so kind, yeah,” he rasps out. “If you have places to be, I get it. I am a big boy, after all. But I chickened out at the last second. And, yeah.” He kicks the ground. “For fuck’s sake, I killed people before.” 

Oya looks at him. “It’s not a problem. I don’t have anywhere to be.” And then, they add, with a layer of cautious curiosity, “How long ago did you break up with the blacksmith?” 

“A few months, I think. Distance did its thing, but it still hurts, in a lot of ways.” Cassander shrugs. His fingers have not stopped moving over the curled ends of his hair. “How have you been?” 

It’s Oya’s turn to laugh. “Aeran should be in the Spire soon.” 

“Yeah. Are you planning any big welcome gestures? Any romantic lunches?” 

Oya looks at him, wide-eyed. They clear their throat. “Nothing of the sort!” 

He giggles. “Sad. And here I was, just about to tell you I know a place.” 

Oya looks at the ground. Romantic lunches sound nice; their sweet, unattainable reverie dances in front of them and dulls everything else. It’s a nice thought - them and Aeran, in the nooks and crannies of their family’s estate in Covera, absorbing the sun and watching the sea. Or maybe, sneaking into an old, unused room high above in one of the Spire’s towers, close for warmth as they watch the snow fall. 

And Aeran would kiss them; or they would kiss him, and it would be lovely and sweet and it makes something in them tighten and release in uneven rhythm. 

“I’m just fucking with you,” Cassander says, by way of apology that doesn’t sound that apologetic. “I just think you two would enjoy a romantic little dinner for two.” He extends an arm to wrap around Oya’s shoulders, but it doesn’t quite touch them; Oya leans into it and he rubs their shoulder. Life goes on around them, life away from the norms of good and high society, life where people like them can talk about having relationships at all, let alone failed ones. 

Then she hears the gates open and the familiar sound of Aeran’s voice, tired from the road, and her heart leaps. She turns back to look at the gates and Cassander turns with her, nodding with realization. 

“Go get your romantic dinner, or whatever you guys want to do,” he tells her. “I will be a big boy, as I said, and get the damn armor.” 

“Are you certain–” 

“Yes! Now go. One chance, Oya, one chance, go, go, go!” 

Oya breathes and tries their best not to run to Aeran. When he sees them, he beams and it’s as if they’re in Covera on a warm, summer’s day, or in an unused room in an abandoned Spire tower watching the snow fall. 

He’s home. 

And in a way, Oya is too. 

#wayfarer #wayfarer if #inspo birb has come to town #cassander inteus #oya cenric #aeran kellis #aeran kellis x wayfarer #man. i hope i wrote your child right #was trying to get into their head; it was surprisingly difficult #i think i did okay? but that's for you to decide ultimately #here's a little gift for you rory bc you're amazing and magnificent

[redwayfarers]

AFFRONT

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Nika/Artoirel Characters: Nika Perseis (WoL), Artoirel de Fortemps, Lucretia Fiore, Mina Fiore Rating: Gen Word count: 1696 Spoilers: minor StB spoilers. part 2 - read on ao3 divider by @saradika

He’d been warned, of course, how difficult this would be. Nika is far from an easy man to get along with on the best of days, let alone in what appears to be the worst state he’s found himself in as of recent history, mentally and physically. He’d been warned, yet he’d insisted, because he couldn’t simply watch as they organised the transport to Ishgard and not offer to help. He couldn’t watch as they carted Nika, fragile and unconscious, away to the hands of Ishgardian chirurgeons, and away from his vigilant eye. 

So he bartered. He told his father it was securing Eorzea’s future if he stayed in Ishgard, by Nika’s side, overseeing his recovery. Maybe he even expected pride in his father's eye for the foresight. He found agreement, but little else. 

Artoirel knows it’s not becoming of him anymore. He knows, yet finds it necessary to justify his actions to his father. Securing Eorzea’s future seems to matter more than the heart of one’s son almost breaking at his lover almost dying. His father has even taken upon himself to bring Nika’s mothers from Limsa, as an additional pair of eyes. 

It’s taken Artoirel a moment to realise how much of a mercy this is. He doesn’t dare interpret it as a sign of care, not quite yet, but he’s grateful nevertheless. Said mothers did warn him about the difficulty of his choice, but he did see the relief in their eyes, knowing that their son has someone steadfast by his side.

He wonders if his own father would share the same relief. For Haurchefant, certainly. For Emmanellain, perhaps. But for Artoirel? The fact he has to wonder at all speaks much more than any answer could. 

But he has bigger things to worry about, such as the hurt in his chest at Nika’s shame-fueled anger that had nowhere to go but to Artoirel. He knows it’s not personal, he even understands the impulse, and yet, his eyes prickle with tears he can’t shed. Relief comes when Nika’s mother rushes in, looks between them and just signals for Artoirel to go. 

Ordinarily, he would’ve been insulted. As it stands, he takes the direction and leaves, though he stops to watch Nika stifle a scream in his mother’s neck. Artoirel hardly remembers what his mother’s hugs felt like. He cannot seem to recall a recent one from his father, either. 

If his insides were a battlefield, they would signal a lost battle. 

Artoirel turns away and walks briskly to his office. He contains any sniffling, and his eyes burn with the effort of holding back tears, but the few gazes he does notice linger. It makes shame burn bright - he’s their lord now - so he picks up the pace and closes the door loudly behind him. Only then does he crumple, halfway across the room to his desk, and the stain of tears follows him as he sits and hides his face in his palms. 

And he cries. He cries, and cries, and cries, cries even as his pride begs him to stop and reason demands he does. It all hits him like bricks, one at the time: Nika’s harsh words, barely audible through tears, that sickening feeling of emptiness and resentment when he thinks of his father, the sight of Nika crying in his mother’s arms and the absence of his own. He feels his hands shake and realizes he’s shaking from head to toe, and cries even harder, because he’s failing his duty. 

Halone save him, he’s failing his duty. He’s responsible for Nika now, and he should be there, in that fucking room, take the yelling with grace, and he should be grateful he’s alive at all to scream at him, not run away–

The door slides open and Artoirel’s blood runs cold. 

“I came to– oh, you’re crying,” a female voice says and he raises his eyes. She sounds genuinely empathetic, which makes him dig his nails into his palms. 

“Madam, I apologize you had to–” he starts, but he hates how his shaken voice sounds. The woman huffs. “If you could just wait for a moment–” 

“That kind of crying isn’t about to disappear in a moment,” she says quietly and Artoirel slumps in his chair. “It’s all good, though. Crying’s normal. Didn’t know you Ishgardians are so uppity about it.” 

He wipes his eyes and looks at her. She’s tall enough to be a Highlander, and her hair is dark and short. She’s dressed in an oversized, woolen coat, and in the dim light of the room, her eyes appear to be two smothering pools of darkness. He suddenly recalls where he knows her from. It’s one of Nika’s mothers. 

“Madam Perseis, I do not.. I do not ordinarily cry before guests,” he says by way of apology. 

“Ain’t a Perseis. Nor a madam.” Great. Now he feels incompetent, ashamed and stupid. “Name’s Lucretia Fiore. I hope my own son’s mentioned me once or twice.” 

“Once or twice,” Artoirel cautiously replies and sniffles. “Shamefully little. He’s never mentioned that your surname is Fiore.” 

Lucretia sighs. “Gods know how little he told you about anything else, then.” 

“I still don’t know what happened to his father, if it’s any consolation, and we have been courting for months now, and have been friends for longer.” 

Lucretia stares. “When he’s less likely to bite my head off, I will have a word with him about it.” She walks over and  uncrosses her hands from her chest. “You’re a lord or something, yeah? Is it okay if I skip the titles and just call you what your name is?” 

“A count,” he corrects and throws his head back against the chair. Not that he’s worthy of the title in this state, anyway. “But please, do not refer to me as such. It’s hardly earned.” 

“That’s how aristocracy works, I think.” 

“It is not a just system, necessarily. Artoirel is enough.” He shrugs. “It is my name.”  

“Good.” Lucretia points towards a nearby seat and he nods. “Just came to say sorry on Nika’s behalf and that he’ll come around. It’s not your fault he almost got himself killed. You didn’t deserve the anger he poured on you earlier.” 

“I am responsible for him now,” Artoirel replies. “For the time being, I should say. For his care. I have seen people.. Do unjust things in their rage, and there should be someone there to listen to that rage.” He pauses. “Not a.. superior. A caretaker.” 

“Very noble of you,” Lucretia says. “But what happens when caretakers get overwhelmed? Taking care of people is hard. Taking care of Nika is even harder. Give yourself a breather when you need it.” 

He simply sucks air in and massages his hands. His head feels full of lead, a heavy pull that drags down to his chest. There is no ‘breather’ when you are responsible. There is no ‘breather’ when you have a duty, towards one’s country, one’s family, and one’s lover. A part of him notes that Nika’s failed in honoring the one he has towards his family. 

But when has Nika ever cared for such things? He disapproves, of course, but Nika’s offense feels lesser than his own. In fact, he might as well have not had a single bad thought in his entire life. It’s a lie, of course. But Artoirel has no strength to grapple with moral qualms right now. 

“He will come around,” Lucretia repeats. “He’s like his mother, says shit he doesn’t mean, does shit he doesn’t mean. He also has her tendency of running away, but something tells me he won’t run away from this one. I won’t let him.” 

“He does resemble her,” Artoirel whispers. The image of them, side by side, comes into sharp focus; the same dark skin, black hair, the same full lips, the same prominent nose. Nika looks so alike to his mother that there is no question that they share blood. But she lacks the scar, and her eyes are the same brown and warm, whereas his are mismatched and sharp. 

There was no sharpness when he crumpled in her arms, though, only anguish. Artoirel recalls his own mother and wonders if his features keep anything from hers anymore or he’s entirely Edmont’s son. He’d been told that he had his mother’s face as a child. But since then he’s grown, and the fullness of his cheeks has been replaced by sharpness. 

But round though it may have been, his mother’s face could still be as cold as his father’s. Cold enough to whisper in his ear that he should reject Haurchefant, cold enough to convince him of it. Cold enough to leave an emptiness when she died. She was only ever truly happy when she played music. 

But both she and Haurchefant are dead. Her hatred does not matter anymore. Artoirel blinks tears away. Lucretia is watching him, gentle, and it makes him want to cry even more. 

“Do you need a hug?” she asks, and her voice is low and akin to a soft wave. She places a tentative hand on his arm. Artoirel doesn’t recall his parents’ hugs. 

His pride rebels, naturally. But this whole situation is ridiculous enough as is and his head feels as if it’s about to burst from the pressure of recent events. He thinks of Nika in the other room, his sharp words play in Artoirel’s head in a loop, but he cannot find it in him to be angry. He thinks of his father calling Aymeric his son, without a word in Artoirel’s direction, but he cannot find it in him to be angry about this, either. 

All he can do is endure and hope it goes away, like any duty-bound son of Ishgard would. 

“I do, actually,” he says at last, and Lucretia shuffles until she wraps her arms around him, and Artoirel melts against her and this time, he doesn’t bother to hide his tears. 

Because all he can do is endure, and maybe, enduring does not have to mean being strong at all times. 

What an odd notion. He’ll take it anyway. 

#ffxiv #inspo birb has come to town #nero plays ffxiv #nika perseis #artoirel de fortemps #nika x artoirel #wolartoirel #wol x artoirel #ffxiv writing #ffxiv fic #ffxiv wol #stormblood spoilers #house keeping done: please look at my little art study #do note that half of the relationships here are my hcs and interpretations #i find him so fascinating though. and squenix isn't feeding me #so i make my own lore #this is too niche-y i'd say but hey it's out

[redwayfarers]

@galadae your prompt once more isn't processed bc tonglr. sad nero noises. but also they're never getting this together! have some intellis angst + aeran character study

fandom: wayfarer ship: cassander inteus/aeran kellis (intellis) characters: cassander inteus, aeran kellis rating: gen words: 1137 divider credit

prompt: kiss to shut someone up

At first, Aeran doubted that Zenaida would pay them. Cass did too, if his jabs and comments on Dareia were anything other than sheer boredom. But she came through in the end - a promised three thousand crowns each, and they took every last one of them, never to see a Guild Mage again in their lives. 

At least there weren’t any in the middling Coveran village they came to. Cass had insisted. Aeran doesn’t understand what drew him to Covera, but he doesn’t need to. The ease with which Cassander sits and watches the sea in the evenings makes up for all the confusion. Sometimes Aeran sits with him, brings some fruit, and they share it in comfortable silence, hands joined on the rocks. 

It’s been a few months since. A month more than what the locals usually allow. 

“Aren’t you glad we went to Covera?” Cass asks one evening over dinner, in between bites of cheese. “People here don’t give a shit. Everywhere else we would’ve been strays already. Here we just buy meat and cheese and veggies and go fuck in our little cottage and nobody bats an eye.” He picks up a grape and eats it with gusto. “Why didn’t we come to Covera sooner? We wouldn’t have seen Quirinus. But no, you had to arrange that Zenaida thing. Doesn’t matter, right? We’re elves. We can afford to wait months or years. Maybe even a century.” 

Aeran stares. The cheese stares back, as do the grapes and the cooked fish. Cass has always had a long tongue, true, and it is true Aeran did barter with Zenaida while Cass almost died in the Count’s villa and needed surgical attention only she could provide. 

“Nothing to say, Kellis?” Cass says and pushes a grape into Aeran’s mouth. “Eat up. We can afford to eat like fucking kings for once.” 

Aeran has little choice but to obey. 

That evening, as he’s cleaning up, light from a nearby candle catches onto the scar on his shoulder. It’s deep, fresh and mangled, as if just surgically sealed shut, yet there is no puffiness and redness of a new wound. He seems unperturbed by it, and by all accounts, it should hurt. 

“Are you in pain, Songweaver?” Aeran asks and reaches out to run his fingers over it. Cass smiles and shakes his head. 

“Just looks nasty. Otherwise it’s fine.” 

“It’s been months. It shouldn’t be this mangled, Cassander. If you’ve been hiding it from me all this time–” 

Cassander laughs, throaty, loud. The whole cottage echoes with it. When he looks at Aeran, his smile is gummy. “Trust me, I would’ve let you know already.” 

Lies. His Songweaver whines when it’s a cut, but won’t say a thing when it’s something big. Taking care of wounds hurts extra; painkillers have always had less effect on him. 

Cass then sets the broom down and walks over. His shadow is long and dark. His hair adds and expands the leanness of his body until his reflection takes over the whole wall. He’s never seen Theokleia Inteus, and would shoot her on sight if he ever did, but in his mind’s eye, Aeran finally sees why Cassander is his mother’s son. 

He then feels a hand on his shoulder and a pressure of a warm, freckled body against his own. Cass’ lips are on Aeran’s forehead, full and soft. “‘Sides, some wounds never heal. I think you know that. I know that, too. Too many wounds, it’s a fucking miracle we’re able to exist still. But we don’t have anyone to stitch them, do we? We stitch them ourselves.” He then guides Aeran’s hand to the mangled tissue. “And when we do find someone else to do it, they do it so shittily it’s all mangled and ugly.” 

Aeran looks at his feet. His own shoulders are shaking. His eyes are watering. 

“Stitch your own fucking wounds, Kellis. Stop being a coward and running away from that.” 

“What about you?” Aeran bites out. “Don’t tell me you’re this pinnacle of goodness, you asshole, because you’re not. You’re bleeding out left, right and center, for fuck’s sake.” 

“You don’t know half of it,” Cassander’s voice turns rough and raspy. “I’m not making it everyone else’s problem. If they dislike the sight of blood, they can leave.” 

Aeran’s shaking. He refuses to cry, but he’s shaking like a leaf. “Songweaver–” 

Cassander kisses him, rough and hard. “I think you like the sight of blood, though. You’re drenched in it yourself. Clean your own and then we can talk.” 

Aeran wakes to the shifting of the ship. His elven eyesight pierces the darkness around him so suddenly he gasps, like someone held him underwater and is just now letting him breathe. Only sounds reaching his ears are the waves of the Rhesainian ocean and the heaviness of his own breathing, labored and harsh. 

And, well, the rhythmic breathing of another person, sound asleep on Aeran’s chest. 

At some point during the night, Cassander migrated from sleeping next to Aeran’s side to planting himself face first into Aeran’s chest. All Aeran sees is the mess of dark, red curls and the twin points of his ears that peek through. He pokes them on a whim; Cass doesn’t budge. Why would he? He spent the last few hours before exhaustion finally won over crying in Aeran’s arms. It was unwise to take more painkillers, Malsara said, but almost dying is painful. 

At least he gets some respite of it in his sleep. 

That same Cassander shadowed everything in Aeran’s dream. He wipes the sweat off his brow. He’s hot and stuffy and mildly uncomfortable, but he feels less comfortable letting go of Cass now he isn’t this giant, sharp-tongued beast. Instead, he’s smaller and gentler and real. The pressure of his body isn’t oppressive anymore. 

Aeran throws his head back as much as he can and sighs deeply. His hands press against Cass’ body tighter. Cass grumbles and Aeran starts humming a song he heard Cass sing under his breath once or twice. He doesn’t know the words, he doesn’t speak Vestran, but the beat is easy enough to follow. Cass settles again. 

Just a bad dream, Aeran thinks. He doesn’t dare look at Cassander’s wound, bandaged as it is. He doesn’t want to think about his dream, or what it may mean, or why it pops up, or why his stupid head gives those words to Cassander in particular. He’s not harmless by any means, but Aeran refuses to acknowledge that right now, and instead prefers to watch his sleeping, peaceful form. 

Maybe after Velantis is in the dust, he can think about it. In the meantime, he has this. That’s all he can muster to think right now. 

He doesn’t have any other choice. 

#wayfarer #wayfarer if #wayfarer mc #cassander inteus #aeran kellis #intellis #cassander x aeran #inspo birb has come to town #my writing #i missed them....

[redwayfarers]

@lilas your prompt is here! tonglr was being weird and i've been trying for so long to just publish the thing? so here it is as a regular post instead...

fandom: wayfarer ship: cassander inteus/melchior larkspur (cassmel) characters: cassander inteus, melchior larkspur rating: gen words: 1045 dividers by @saradika

prompt: kiss in secret

There are a few rules when Mel is on a con job. One, never greet him as Melchior in public. In fact, don’t greet him at all beyond a wave; he may have masked his stretched blue body to others, but to my eye, he sticks out like a sore thumb. I do too, so I get it. Most of the time, “tall red guy” gives me away. 

Chasing wayfarers out of villages sure is fucking fun. The tall red guy has outstayed his welcome, so we chase him out with forks and brooms. Did you know that magiani bring curses on ships and most recently, villages? Red ones more than most! Honorable Guild of Mages has concluded and definitively proved that magiani are somehow fucked in the head (through absolutely no fault of the Guild itself) and they also bring bad luck. Better chase them out quick before it spreads! 

The hair, I mean. There is such a thing as bastards. 

Next thing I gotta do when Mel’s on a job is bring out my collection of headscarves. Just in case. Height gives me away regardless. It’s only Sero’s thoughtful care that helped me not bump my head against all kinds of shit when I was growing up. By now it’s instinct. It helps lessen the chances of him being found out if he ever sees me. 

Not that he normally does, mind. He usually avoids me for those reasons, but just in case we see each other out and about. I don’t mind it, personally. Headscarves make for some nice, inexpensive detailing. I am but a poor wayfarer, after all. With some puppy eyes and dick sucking, I managed to get some face framing pieces in the mix, too. 

If you told me I’d be in a relationship with a con artist and technically complicit in his crimes, I would’ve laughed. But hey, it’s not like I don’t approve of him scamming rich assholes. I bear the name of a long line of rich assholes who hog all the power, I have every right to hate them with all my being. 

So in the midst of one such crime, with my dark headscarf, curls around my face and non-descript clothes, I glide into the crowds of Velantis. What I wasn’t expecting, however, is seeing Mel in them, blue and gorgeous and dressed in absolute finery I’m not sure how he affords. He’s in the company of a human with black hair, equally well dressed, whispering something in her ear. She blushes and looks away. Mel gives her a sweet smile. 

He has such a way with people. 

I don’t know what she’s seeing. Is it a human, like her, or maybe an elf? Probably not a melusine. Maybe an aeda? Certainly not a dwarf, judging by his body language. I don’t know the name off the top of my head, but I can’t go shouting Melchior like this. It’ll probably be a one off sighting and a story he tells me over dinner. 

Yet, as she looks away, Mel glances in my direction. His eyes widen for a fraction of a moment and he whispers something in the woman’s ear. She nods, earning herself a kiss on the cheek, and he makes his way over. 

“Hello,” I say quietly and he signals to a nearby hidden corner between two shops. His hand grips my upper arm and we sneak in there. It isn’t hard to hide our footsteps in the throngs of Velantis. 

As soon as we’re out of sight, his shoulders droop. His smile, acted and fake, drops. He doesn’t let go of my upper arm. “Thank the stars I saw you,” he says, and he sounds.. Off. Nervous. Worried. 

“What’s the matter? Something wrong?” I look over at his face. He offers a small smile. 

“Nothing you’re able to help with much, unfortunately,” he says quietly. “I simply haven’t been this nervous over… in a long time. It’s disconcerting.”

“I’m sure you’re doing great,” I reply, taking his hand in mine. He sighs deeply and leans in. 

“You smell of oranges,” he says. He then kisses me, and I’m careful to not ruin his hair or clothes when I hug him and return the kiss. Thankfully he’s not wearing any lip color, and even then, the importance of not ruining the image he’s presenting. I don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself if he got in trouble because of me. 

“Wanna talk about it? Tonight, I mean.” 

He squeezes my hand and nods. I kiss his forehead. “You’ll be fine,” I laugh softly. “You could fool the best of them.” 

“As long as I am not ratted out,” he teases. It’s still tense, but not as tense as before. 

“You won’t get any rats from me,” I promise. “Mice, maybe. Rats, no.” 

He barely holds back a laugh. “I really need to go now, Cassander. But I did need that. I’ll tell you all about it tonight.” 

I can’t help stealing yet another quick kiss. It's not my fault he has such kissable lips. He smiles, but this time, it’s genuine and less of a mask. He then lets go of my hand to dig through his pocket and place something in my hand. 

It’s a few crowns, shiny and gold in the sunlight. “Buy yourself that hair oil you like,” he says and touches the curls around my face. It sends the hairs tickling the skin of my cheeks and it’s my turn to hold back a laugh. “It makes your hair look so delightfully bouncy.”

Before I can say much else, he’s off in the crowds again, and I’m left looking at the crowns. They’re so new and maybe possibly freshly forged, and maybe he stole them just for me, or maybe he brought them for himself but decided my hair is a more worthwhile investment, I don’t fucking know. I just know that they make me giggle like I’m a kid again and that there’s more than enough crowns there for two bottles of the oil. 

I also know that there’s a story waiting for me tonight, and that maybe, I’m not as shitty of a person as my head likes to make me think I am.

#wayfarer if #wayfarer #cassander inteus #melchior larkspur #cassander x melchior #inspo birb has come to town #my writing

[i-mybrunettelady]

Novella Newsflash’s field day: VSArtParty

Here’s my contribution to this saturday’s VSArtParty! I tried to include as many people as I could, and I’ll tag them all below, but I deeply apologize if I didn’t get to you :’( I had tons of fun writing this though and I hope you like my humble contribution! If you have any issues with your characters being here, lmk and I’ll make necessary edits <3

Novella Newsflash loves her job. She loves it so much she can’t help but always talk about it. She’s always sniffing at some corner or another for new stories and news, preens like a bird when her bosses at Tyria Times compliment her work and rewards herself with a full body bubble bath when that happens. 

So here she is, in Black Citadel, where she was born - her dam would me very proud of her, she thinks, given as both her sire and dam are Ash, considering how juicy of a story Novella can dig up - and she’s off to Hero’s Canton to get some whiskey and eavesdrop on people when all her four ears catch on something well and truly spectacular. 

Dozens of voices ring out from the tavern, loud, noisy, words fall over each other and there are thousand conversations at once. There’s a tap of shoes against the metal floors, and Novella runs there as fast as she dares, adjusts her hair before entering and shimmies down to the bar. There’s a remote place in the far corner where she can blend in. She tries to not let her excitement show too terribly as she gulps down her drink. 

So she sits down and just listens. 

There’s people of all races. A huge number of charr are all standing on hind feet and crossing their arms over their chest. Their tails swish back and forth, tickling each other. She spots a big, red-furred charr standing side by side with a whitecharr with goggles. She thinks she saw them somewhere and recognizes them as Gaius Horncleaver and artifex..? Lucasta. Her name’s Lucasta. On Gaius’ right is a black-haired, handsome, striped person she recognizes as Titus Pyrevoice. They’re all laughing at a joke someone makes. Between them, someone she vaguely recognizes, a white-haired charr whose name escapes her.. Foggydance? Novella isn’t sure.

On the far right, a group of humans is standing on a table. A fellow in green and gold just watches everyone. His name’s Prem, she digs out of the depths of her memory. Next to him, a small, short-haired human girl with a minion by her side. Necromancer. A pretty white-haired girl just makes her best judgy face. Someone in a pretty Sunspear outfit and pretty hair beads is there too. 

Two men - one a blonde pirate captain, the other a pale goth, safeguarded by his angel-faced husband behind him - drink tea. A huge portion of the guys are dressed in maid suits. 

Norn are fewer, Novella thinks, which is a fucking shame because she sees so few of them around. A woman with an icebrooded arm and a perpetual frown broods at various places in the tavern. She’s a mean one, Novella thinks. Britta. A red-haired norn with white tattoos and a skull mask on her face mingles around. Haven Crowe, her mind supplies. She wonders if the mask is permanent or if she paints it on every day. 

A blue-haired norn, a Commander maybe, is watching a group of sylvari in maid suits, starting with a succulent colored man with long hair and a stack of cowboy clothes nearby. He looks distinctly uncomfortable. Next to him, his tall, pink haired friend looks very much at ease. Marwyd and Hosea. She’s heard of them.There’s also a necromancer sylvari in dark green and what she hopes is a shiny, magical mask, watching the indiscernible conversation with interest.

And in the midst of them all, a small, pale asura runs around. Her white hair flies behind her as she causes mayhem in the already chaotic room. 

Novella Newsflash will once more be journalist du jour with these colorful, interesting characters around. 

Characters mentioned: Ian Marcin - @jorasdottir Caspian Stratos - @tricksterpale Johnny Joestar - @godkiller-sinead Gaius Horncleaver - @commanderhorncleaver Artificer Lucasta - @catmanderratmander Titus Pyrevoice - @avoiceoffire Foggy Moondance - @raptor-ranch Prem Ikaros - @hawkepockets Mineille - @kerra-and-company Miska Rasheed - @desertshrub Sherry Polnareff - @likemesomesalads Britta Iskaldottir - @pact-valkyrie Haven Crowe - @where-is-caithe Cinalu - @averagebreadslice Marwyd - @kralkatorrik Hosea Slei - @little-leaf-man Damia Rose - @commanderfloppy Qirri Tinkerfist - @ratasum

#gw2 #inspo birb has come to town #vsartparty #obvs i know some better than others #and yeah if you have any issues with your kids being here don't hesitate to let me know #or if i misrepresented them in any way #pls enjoy <3

[i-mybrunettelady]

a story of how (not) to be a big head

Summary: A Pact camp finds itself with a strange Mordrem on their door. It's Renira's duty to sort it out. Content warnings: Slight violence. Spoilers: None.

There’s commotion in the camp. Renira inwardly curses it - the camp was quiet for once, without any bigger threats, and she had half a thought to sleep a little. The looks Doern was giving her were quite worrisome. She can only imagine how she looks. 

But there’s little time to rest in war, so she grabs her pistol from a nearby table, fixes her face so it doesn’t show how annoyed the news has made her, and leaves. As the highest ranked officer in the camp, it’s her duty. The thought makes her head spin; she’d never envisioned herself in this role. She’s always been a good infiltrator, a good spy, but a good Commander? That’s above her spy training. That requires adapting to. 

That’s also what Nyra does best. Oh, she’s there too! It’s still a little unclear whether Nyra technically outranks her in the matters of the Pact army - she is their military arm after all, and Renira is their spymistress. But they share a rank and a title. Renira needs to be there, though she is a little glad she can probably safely defer to Nyra’s expertise on this issue. 

Her tired mind would be very grateful. 

“What’s happening?” she asks the first person she comes across, an asura in Vigil uniform. Their eyes are panicked. 

“Warmaster Bjornsdottir and her team came back,” they tell her. “They brought.. A Mordrem back.” 

“A Mordrem?” Renira keeps her voice steady. “Has it been brought aside for questioning?” 

“He,” the asura replies. “Vehemently opposes being referred to as it and insists that it.. He won’t talk to us otherwise.” 

“Mordrem know of gender identity?” She makes a mental note of that. 

“Apparently. Commander Sulver, this Mordrem.. He’s strange. Looks more like a sylvari than the husks we fight. The Warmaster said he fought with them and killed his own brethren. He’s tied up, just in case of any danger, but so far he’s not caused harm to us.” A pause. “He does have thorns for a tongue, though.” 

“So I should be wary of bites,” Renira nods. “Your help is much appreciated, soldier. Leave the rest to Commander Ainsaph and me.” 

The asura gratefully nods and runs along. She steels her nerves - that Mordrem looks to be a right pain the ass, even if she’s cautiously curious about him - and makes her way to where Warmaster Bjornsdottir and her team are. And true to the soldier’s words, she holds a Mordrem by the hair. 

Yeah, this might just be the strangest Mordrem she’s seen in her life. His bark is a deep green, and in the dying light of day, the high points of his sharp face are starting to glow a bright red. Red horns grow between strands of red foliage, long enough to reach his waist. Red, blood-like patterns splash his neck and go down his chest and lower, hidden by the torn, leafy clothes. 

But what she focuses most of her attention on are his eyes - dark red, glowing, with unsettling, golden irises. And when he notices she’s watching, they turn to her, unblinking. Then his eyes widen. “You’re one of us!” 

“I am not working for Mordremoth,” Renira explains cooly. 

“Obviously not, I’m not fucking stupid, but what I meant is, you have magic like us. Like me. I’d wiggle my fingers to make an illusion or two but your ridiculously harmless friends tied my fingers too.” A laughter, maniacally amused. “Is it true you people tie each other up for funsies?” 

“For funsies?” Renira repeats. Bjornsdottir repositions herself and uses her free hand to slap him across the face. “Some people are aroused by being slapped too. I see you’re not one of them.” 

“Not particularly,” he says, voice subdued. Someone laughs from the gathering crowd. “Ouch.”

“That’s our guy?” Nyra suddenly intones, and any clamor the hit might’ve caused dies down. “Our strange little Mordrem?” 

“What a delightful lot you people are,” he scoffs. “Guy surrenders and doesn’t fight back and what does he get?” 

“You are in an enemy camp,” Nyra reminds him. “Since you surrendered, we will not harm you. Aisanne, let his hair go.” 

Aisanne looks Nyra in the eye and then, begrudgingly, lets go. Mordrem's head falls forward. “Fucking finally,” he mutters. 

“Do you have a name?” 

“Kassandros,” he says and looks at the state he’s in. Renira thinks his arms, pulled back, must be aching by now. She stretches her neck to see if his fingers are really tied. They are; that was a smart call. That limits one type of spellcasting he could use. He catches her looking once more. “It’s more dignified than the situation I’m in right now, in case you were wondering.” 

Renira tilts her head. Her chest tightens for a mere moment before she lets it go. “Life rarely is dignified,” she simply says. 

“Mm, quite. And where’s the Commander? The big bad dragon slayer?” 

“Big and bad?” Nyra lifts a brow and smiles slightly. “That’s one way to talk about me, certainly.” 

Renira watches. They were all on the Glory of Tyria when Zhaitan fell, though history will most likely remember the one who fired from the cannons and not the ones who killed the lifeless minions around them. But it is expected. Careless, maybe a little reckless, but a challenge to the dragon nonetheless. If it were up to Renira, she wouldn’t reveal anything until absolutely necessary. 

But that’s not Nyra, is it? Besides, it takes the focus away from Renira. The way Kassandros looks at her, studies her, even without using his magic, makes her skin crawl. She’s been told she has a similar effect before. She does not appreciate being seen like this. 

“Knew it’d be you - or someone like you, anyway. You just seem like the type to oh so bravely walk up to a dragon and maybe die for the audacity.” 

Nyra’s smile drops. “I am sworn to protect Tyria from them,” she says sharply. “Just as you turned your back on your own. That’s equally fucking ballsy, and might just get you killed long before your master ever finds out about it. I’d pick my words more wisely if I were you.” 

“Noted, Commander,” he grins and they only have a glint of his fangs before Bjornsdottir’s levelling her fist at him again. This time around, he flies to the side, groaning when his head hits the grass with a thud. 

“I know you said no harm, Commander,” Bjornsdottir says, “but he’s making this into extraordinary circumstances.”

“Honestly, would’ve done the same myself at some point, probably,” Nyra shrugs. Kassandros stares at her with wide eyes, panting. 

“Listen, I bear no more love for the leafy bastard than you,” he says as he tries to sit up and falls down. “In fact, I hate him. I hate him, I hate the spawn of my mother he made. I hate my siblings, I hate the control, I loathe it all! They can all go fuck themselves for all I care! And you people are the best shot of doing just that. So I’m on your side. I’m helping you.” His angry, unsettling gaze passes between the three women around him, made all the worse by his helpless position on the ground. Nobody makes a move to help. “I ask for protection in exchange for information and aid. I know how my people work. I know the jungle–” 

Aisanne bristles. 

“I know the jungle, okay, okay, no need to hit me again,” he breathes out. “All I ask is protection. And you’re getting so much in return.” He closes his eyes and sighs.

Everyone falls silent.

“It’s… It’s true that we need a better layout of the jungle and of the Mordrem,” Renira says after a moment. “I mean no offense, Warmaster Bjornsdottir, but wouldn’t your job be easier if we had a better layout of the place we’re trying to fight in?”

“Then I’ll make one,” Aisanne says and bores her eyes into Kassandros. “But– He did fight with us. He didn’t resist the capture. He did surrender.” 

“Ren, is there any mesmer magic currently active on him, if you can notice it?” Nyra asks. 

“If I could, it’d be shitty magic,” Renira replies and makes a few steps forward. “And I do not think our Mordrem is an amateur.” 

“Thank you?” Kassandros pipes up, more than a little confused and bewildered.

“We can always call our Priory arcanists,” Renira continues. “Elandrin isn’t here, unfortunately. But he’s not the only Arcanist in our ranks.”

“Do it. I’ll consider the option if they say there’s nothing.” Nyra waves a hand to the nearest soldier to go look for any Arcanist they can find. Of course it’s all down to her. Renira smiles. “And in the meantime, for the fuck’s sake, help the guy sit up.” 

“How very generous of you,” Kassandros whispers when a scout helps him up. He still looks angry, but his voice is more subdued this time. If Renira had to guess, he’s aware of what situation he’s in and acts more or less accordingly. And for what it’s worth, he doesn’t seem to be lying. She’s made lies her trade, after all. She would have a very good idea of what lying looks like. 

He gives her a long, lingering look. His clothes are only barely tethered to him. His face contorts in a grimace whenever he tries to get his arms in a more comfortable position. The image is familiar, almost too familiar, another life flashing before her eyes in the rare few instances Vera had a reflective surface to catch a glimpse of herself. 

It’s a face Renira doesn’t remember, but she remembers the rags, the anger, the aches. Kassandros presses his lips tightly together, swallows thickly and something flashes in his eyes for a moment before he looks at Aisanne and Nyra. Aisanne frowns. Nyra observes with an emotionless face, but Renira knows there’s a morsel of empathy in her heart. 

A trick to garner sympathy, she tells herself, but the pain in his eyes was as clear as the horns on his head. She knows of such pain. She doesn’t trust fully, but she trusts that it’s there, even if a little played up. A part of her, the less rational one, thinks that you can’t lie about it. The rational one thinks you absolutely can. 

She supposes the decision is not hers. Nyra seems more than happy to make it - and face the consequences afterwards.

Yet, just maybe, she’s already trying to think of people who might watch him. 

#gw2 #inspo birb has come to town #alysannyra #renira sulver #aisanne bjornsdottir #cassposting on main #gw2 fic #it's like almost 2k words of ren having realizations. #and ren narration #once more she observes but she's a baby ren here!!! fun times #hope you like it!

[i-mybrunettelady]

Life moves on

Summary: Life’s a lot like climbing. You have to just keep going. But as Braham can attest, not always alone. Sometimes your mate comes with you. Content warnings: None Rating: General Spoilers: Vague spoilers for LWS4 Author’s note: As is by this point an annual tradition, I write a lil something for one of my fave seasonal events in the game. This time around, it’s Sanne and Braham.

When Sanne suggested they go to the Labyrinthine Cliffs, Braham knew what he was getting into. They weren’t going for the sights, nor the beach, nor the wide expanse of clear sea water. No, they’re going so his mate could throw herself off high cliff edges on griffons so she can fly with her birds. 

He’s since learned to accept it for what it is. He knows the Spirits will keep her safe; they owe him as much at the very least. And her, too. A part of him stops whenever he sees her head disappear, but comes back to itself when he hears her laughter from somewhere down below, loud and boisterous. And it makes him smile. Because it always does. 

Because it means his sacrifice was worth it.

Thus, they’re the highest cliff they could find in Labyrinthine Cliffs, the birds flying over their heads. The fresh sea air tickles at their hair, there’s sounds of life and joy everywhere and the roar of people as they look for little satchels of loot. Braham studies them as much as he’s able to from his position. 

“You’re gonna lose the race,” Sanne reminds him and he snaps his head forward. A ray of sunlight obscurs the most of her freckles, but sheds light on the wide, grinning corner of lips and the long, golden braids on the side of her head. The rest of her hair falls on her back and reaches past her hips, and it sways in the breeze. She looks so at ease there, radiant, the exposed skin of her body strong and taut and ready for action. 

“Oh no,” Braham laughs and climbs up. Gemma gives a screech of disapproval from somewhere above. “You’re not winning this one, Bjornsdottir. You won last time. It’s time you tasted some dust.” 

“In your dreams, Eirson!” she shouts back, trying to maintain her advance. And then, just for the hell of it, she starts humming a song she knows he absolutely abhors. Braham frowns. Not even Aisanne, the famed skaald from Hoelbrak, can make that particular tune good. 

It’s apparently the three seconds she needs to get a few steps ahead of him and the song abruptly stops. Smart, Braham thinks with not a lot of annoyance. Boy, her raven, flies over Braham’s face and gives him a quick look. In the last few months, he’s starting to have a communication of sorts with her birds. 

Yes, yes, I know Raven’s happy and proud. You’re a good bird, though. 

Boy makes a noise and flaps his wings. Their loyalty - his, Soar’s and Gemma’s - reminds him a lot of Garm. These days, it doesn’t hurt to think of Eir as much. Garm’s there to try and chase the lingering, unanswered questions away. There are other, painful thoughts, but Eir feels more like a healing scar than an open wound.

Life moves on, after all. Doesn’t wait for anyone. It didn’t wait for Nyra after Maguuma. It didn’t wait for Taimi after Joko almost killed her. It didn’t wait for Rox when her warband died. It didn’t wait for Sanne when her uncle died. Instead, they all just climb on - a flash of yellow up ahead, pale hairs of Sanne’s leg - and like his friends, like his mate, he climbs on too. 

Sanne wins by a small margin, though. She wipes the sweat of her forehead and places her hands on her hips as Gemma elegantly flies down on her shoulder. “Who’s eating dust now, Eirson?” she asks proudly. Boy and Soar settle by her feet, keeping close. 

“Two to one for you,” Braham declares. “Oh, I’m gonna get you for this. I was having very deep thoughts and that stopped me from winning. Next time, no deep thoughts, only victory.”

“The festival’s just begun,” she replies. There’s a joyful gleam in her eye. “And there are skimmer races. Don’t give a fuck about other contenders if you’re competing. We’re keeping a score, Braham. Do you really want to tell Garm I beat you here?” 

“Garm has seen me in much worse states, admittedly,” he says slowly, “but I do want to lay the wreath of victory at his feet.” His voice turns quieter, softer, then. “I don’t think he’ll mind whoever wins, Sanne. We’re all together in this.” 

Gemma hoots. Sanne takes a deep breath and strokes her beak. “Possessive little bird,” she says, but there’s nothing but fondness in her voice. “We’re a family, yeah. All six of us. And my parents. And aunts and uncles. And my cousins. Family.”

She then raises a hand and whispers something to the wind. Within minutes, a large griffon with dark feathers and a saddle flies to their rock, announcing its arrival in a loud yell. She gently places Gemma down with Boy and Soar and climbs on the griffon, petting its neck. 

She then turns to Braham, smiles softly, and says, “See you down, Eirson. I gotta take the children out for a flight.” Then she’s down and for a moment, his heart skips a beat. He then sees the flag of her golden hair out against the sunlight, in rapid descent and a whirlwind of air and laughter, and three bird-like forms trailing after her in formation. 

Life moves on, no matter what.  

#gw2 #inspo birb has come to town #aisanne bjornsdottir #braham eirsson #branne #gw2 norn #my writing #festival of the four winds #guild wars 2 #canon x oc #hehe love my norn kids #first time writing braham i think so be kind to me pls

[redwayfarers]

defense

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Nika/Artoirel Characters: Nika Perseis (WoL), Artoirel de Fortemps (mentioned), Mina Fiore Rating: Gen Word count: 1516 Spoilers: minor StB spoilers. part 1 - read on ao3 divider by @saradika

The door closes behind her. Admittedly, she never imagined her first introduction to this mysterious Artoirel to be like this; from Nika’s stories, he’s a proud, determined man, reserved but genuine, devoted to a cause. And those things may be true - from the way he stood there, taking Nika’s verbal abuse like a stone figure, betrayed largely by a shaking hand and blinking eyes that try to stave off tears, Mina glimpsed at all those things that her son spoke of that made him look away with a silly little smile on his face. 

But this is different, gravely so. She knows something of pride, but she also knows something of pain, and by the Twelve, if Artoirel’s eyes didn’t shine with hurt! The Nika that spoke of his finer qualities is not the same Nika who yells now, draped in a shirt too large for him, holding onto a bedpost for dear life and crying. So Mina sends Artoirel away, wraps her arms around her son and muffles his anger-filled screams in the collar of her shirt. 

The same way she did when he was a baby, when he was upset. Rogan was there too, playing with Nika’s hair, trying to get him to calm down. But that was years ago; Rogan is now dead, Nika is no longer a baby, yet Mina holds him all the same. 

What else should she do? It’s her child. No mother likes seeing her child in pain. Maybe if Rogan lived, maybe she’d have another, but as fate would have it, she only has Nika now. Really, what else should she do?

It’s later that day, when Nika’s calmed down, that she hears him ask in a quiet, sore, wrecked voice, “Do you think he hates me now?” 

Mina shuffles on her feet. She stops brushing his hair for a moment. “Artoirel?” 

Nika huffs. “No. His brother in Camp Dragonhead. The dead one.”

Mina squints. Nika’s shoulders droop. “Yeah, Artoirel. I told him… I told him a lot of shit earlier.” 

“Quite angrily, too.” 

Nika sighs. “Do you think he hates me?” A pause. “I’d hate myself. I’d try to kill me, if I was him. Kick me out of my house and my life.” A pause. “Certainly not love me anymore.”

“I think you hurt him,” Mina says. “And I think you have to apologize to him. But I don’t think he wants you out of his home.” 

“But does he love me still?” Nika pushes, and turns sharply to look at her. But the movement is probably too sharp, and his face scrunches in pain. 

“You can love someone even if they hurt you,” Mina quietly says. Nika purses his lips and slowly turns away. “Likewise, you can love someone and hurt them at the same time.” She knows all too well the extent of her words. Had life been different, had she maybe been wiser, maybe she wouldn’t have left Ul’dah after Rogan’s death, and wouldn’t have uprooted Nika’s life. Maybe he wouldn’t have run away otherwise - in that same half-baked wisdom that Mina herself had in her times of grief. But the facts remain. Love is not enough. You can have all the love in the world and still it won’t save you the pain if you’re not careful. 

“I would kick me out, if I was him,” Nika repeats. He then laughs, but there’s no joy in it. It’s as wrecked as he himself is. “We’re the wrong people to talk about this sort of thing, right, mom?” 

Mina blinks. She looks at their reflections in the dresser’s mirror - their similar faces, their dark hair, with hers bearing the signs of age, and his the signs of violence. In the dim light of the dying evening, his eyes shine like Rogan’s once did, whenever he’d feel overwhelmed; a spectacle, a show, bloodshot, puffy. But that’s the only thing Nika has of his father - everything else is of Mina, down to the actions, to their bones, and the proud, uldan marrow. Rogan was of Ul’dah himself, and looked the part, but Mina’s face disappeared in the crowd more easily. He didn’t carry the pride of the city’s inhabitants in quite the same way Nika and Mina do. 

“I don’t think so,” she says. “Have I ever talked to you about me and your father, before you were born?” 

Nika’s response is quick. “No.” He sounds tired, too tired to make it an accusation it should be. 

“I remember we had a big fight one day, right before he was meant to go on a mission,” she swallows a lump in her throat, “and I told him a lot of bad things. I had to sit with them for two weeks, praying he’d return soon so I could say sorry, and when he did, it was all solved. We were hale once more.”

“That sounds like a fucking nightmare,” Nika shivers. 

“And Lucretia too - she asked if she could meet you, I told her it was not the time, without consulting either of you, and I hurt her feelings too. But we made up, and she did get to meet you.” 

“Was that right before the dinner you broke the news that you were bisexual to me over flatbread?” 

Mina buries her face in her hands. Not her finest moment. “I had no idea you knew the word at all. Gods, I didn’t know how to label it myself for a long time.”

“Heard some kids on the street use it,” Nika says softly. “I figured out what it is for the most part on my own. I just..” He trails off. 

“Didn’t think I was going to ever be in love with a man?” Mina finishes and Nika nods. 

“Listen, when Minfilia died, I thought–” he looks away and rubs his eyes. “The world can go fuck itself for all I care, but I– he–” He shakes his hands around his head and hisses. “He’s my second chance at— at love, and if I ruin it because I’m a jackass–” 

“You didn’t!” her voice comes stronger than intended and he looks in the mirror, alert. “If you care about him, and you do, you will apologize, and all will be fine again!” 

“How do you know that!” 

“Because it’s happened before! To me, to your father, to Lucretia! And it will happen again to all of us, including you and Artoirel! And while there may be things you can’t overcome, a lot of things you can. So just suck it up, go to him once you’ve slept a bit, and say you’re sorry!” 

Nika curls in on himself. “Suppose sleep will help,” he murmurs. “My head feels twice its fucking size.” 

She ties the braid off and rubs his shoulders. “It will. Go sleep. And remember that this is nothing you two can’t overcome.”

Nika makes a noise she can’t decipher and doesn’t fight it when she helps him up and guides him to the bed that’s far too large for one person. Mina wonders if hers is as big as this for a brief moment, but such thoughts disappear when she feels Nika’s head rest against her shoulder. 

“Try not to fall down,” she says quietly, halfway joking, and he blinks. 

“How fucking embarrassing,” he replies. “One day I’m shooting at fucking insane Garlean princes, and the other I can’t walk in a straight line to the bed.” 

“You almost died,” Mina says. Dread settles in her bones and she looks at him, imagines her son dead and gone, and she holds him a little tighter, to feel the warmth of his skin. “Don’t– Your body needs time to recover from that. You need time to recover from that.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Long enough to get him on the bed, to get him under the woolen covers. Long enough to sit beside him and run a hand down his arm and have him lean into the touch like it’s a gulp of water in the midst of a drought. 

“I’m scared, Mom,” he croaks, and buries his head in the pillows. “Gods save me, I’m so scared.” 

“It’ll all be fine,” she whispers as she slicks back his hair. It needs washing tomorrow. She then runs a finger over his jaw, where the coarse hairs of a growing beard disappear in the shadows of a bedside candle. It’s as if not a day ago she was helping a child fall asleep, and in the long, painful absences between them, he grew up. He has a beard now, yet it hardly matters. 

He’s her son, and that is all that she knows. 

“It’ll be fine,” she repeats until his breathing becomes even, and only then does she press a kiss to his forehead, one he’d rarely ordinarily allow. 

They may have lost one chance at a relationship, but now they both know that love isn’t enough by itself. And that’s good. Whatever comes out of this, it’ll be better than anything they could’ve had before. 

And that is very, very good. 

#ffxiv #inspo birb has come to town #nika perseis #mina fiore #artoirel de fortemps #nika x artoirel #wolship #ffxiv writing #wolartoirel #ffxiv fic #ffxiv wol #stormblood spoilers #ff14 wol #wol x artoirel #finally posting this lmaooo #look at it go <3

[redwayfarers]

Decembhyur Day 28 - Love

A/N: This is a snippet of a larger piece but not all of it would fit in the conditions of the prompt. So I chose the love confession itself, which is shorter, sweeter, fits the conditions of Decembhyur much better, but I will link the whole piece on ao3 + independently post it on a later date. I just really wanted this scene to be for this prompt, even though it wasn't written with it in mind!

“In Ishgard,” Artoirel starts, “to announce our serious intentions in pursuing someone, we court.” Nika squints. And Artoirel stands before him and swallows again. “Please let me finish, Nika. Ordinarily it would lead to marriage, and ordinarily we would not have slept together beforehand, but this is no ordinary situation. But I do wish to– to court you. To show you I am serious. We don’t have to say anything yet.” 

Artoirel reaches for Nika’s hand, yet allows his fingers to dangle in the air. Nika looks down, away, anywhere but Artoirel’s face, and pouts. 

“We can just try and see where this leads us,” Artoirel offers softly. “I want to think this meant something for you. I want to think that I mean as much to you as you do to me.” 

“You do,” Nika says after a while, almost inaudible. Artoirel’s hands itch to wrap around Nika’s, yet he refrains. Not yet. Not until Nika gives his consent. He will not force his affections on him. Yet, Artoirel can’t look away from the emotions that fight on his face, from the way he trembles. Artoirel trembles too, the patter of his heart drowns all other noise but Nika’s voice, and his stomach ties in innumerable knots. 

They sit like that for what feels like an eternity, on the precipice, ready to walk away or fall together. Eventually, Nika lifts his hand. Artoirel squeezes it. 

“We can give this courting thing a chance,” Nika says, breathless. “Because, I–we– yeah.” 

Artoirel breathes out. “Fury take you, Nika,” he mouths, and kisses him. Nika rises on the tips of his toes and kisses him back, draws him close, and Artoirel holds onto him, his grip strong enough to almost lift him off the ground. 

When they part, Nika’s eyes are wide and round, as they were last night. Artoirel’s cheeks burn like a furnace, but he doesn’t care; it’s his first day of courtship, as unusual as it may be. He can’t find it in him to let go of Nika, and if it were up to him, he’d rather see Eorzea aflame than let Nika go to save it. 

He knows Nika doesn’t like that anyway. 

Frankly, Eorzea doesn’t matter anymore. What does is the way Nika clings to him, and the way his hair smells, and the warmth of his body against Artoirel’s. What matters is them watching the city move about, away from it all, standing by the window together. Together. 

The rest of it really does not stand a chance whatsoever. 

#ffxiv #nero plays ffxiv #inspo birb has come to town #nika perseis #artoirel de fortemps #nika x artoirel #decembhyur2023 #i'm so normal about them. they're so evenly matched but in opposite directions #and they match each other's vibes so well #like. the way nika doesn't fault artoirel for having tried to kill him. #the way artoirel accepts nika's nature as not that good of a person. #arguably artoirel himself isn't either if we're going by heavensward characterization #bc i've heard it changes. somewhat in the enw caster quests that i won't play for a long long time #if i ever get to any caster class that is. #so like. heavensward!artoirel is what my understanding is based on #*sobs* why'd i have to sell my soul to a guy in npc jail #wolship #wol x artoirel

[redwayfarers]

just desserts

Fandom: Wayfarer Ship: Cassander Inteus/Melchior Larkspur/Kathan Sero Characters: Cassander Inteus, Kathan Sero, Melchior Larkspur Rating: Explicit (minors don't read) Words: 1771 Spoilers: None // modern au Huge thank you to @melusinedreams for borrowing her most feral babygirl Kathan to me &lt;;3 read on ao3 divider by @saradika

He comes home earlier than usual. I didn’t hear him, with how loud the music plays in the kitchen; I have an article to write about this new up and coming band - given to me because I’m apparently good at my job and because, and I quote, “they talk about the gay love.” Fair enough, though I’m bisexual thank you very much, the gay stuff is still something I’m familiar with. Maybe she’d seen my podcast about it. Either way, their music’s good - largely pop, but that’s as neutral as having ears is - and it sounds far better than the noises of cooking right now. 

Chopping veggies isn’t as appealing of a noise when I’m right in the head as it is when I’m not. Arguably, I’m never right in the head, but there’s degrees to this shit, okay? Sometimes making phone calls is scary. Sometimes the boss sends me home because I’m biting people like an overstretched chihuahua. Sometimes silence is an oppressive weight that feels more like chains than a weighted blanket. And other times, silence is simply annoying and I’m turning the music on and functioning like a normal fucking member of society. 

With some extra meds, but hey. Who the fuck keeps count anyway? 

So yeah, I don’t see him coming, haven’t even anticipated him coming this soon, so when I suddenly feel hands around my waist and lips on my cheek, I let out a startled yell and only to find he’d paused the music for a second and is laughing. The audacity. 

“Hello, my little songbird,” Mel chirps, and I sigh. 

“Hello, spymaster.” I chop the last of the tomatoes and put them in a bowl with the rest of the vegetables. “You’re.. Early? Did Kit kick you out for being too harsh on some line performance?” 

Mel laughs and kisses me. He tastes like coffee and mint. “On the contrary! They performed superbly and I finished early.” 

“You think it’ll be perfect by the premiere?” 

“Unless someone fucks something up extremely badly, which I highly doubt, then yes.” He buries his head in my shoulder and breathes in. Granted, cooking is a good scent half the time, so he’s smelling some really tasty stuff, probably. “Your wryness is rubbing off on me.” 

“You’re too old for that. Seen too much. I think I just make it juicier. More acerbic. I’m bittering this old lemon again.” I shake my head and laugh. “Or a blueberry? Are blueberries acerbic? Hold on, I have to google that now.” I look around to where my phone is, but end up hitting my cheekbone into his temple. He is a warm pressure against my back, and his hands are sliding up and down my sides. “I do think this particular blueberry has a case of… blue balls.” Pause. “Please don’t laugh at that. It’ll shame us both.”   

Then, another voice rings from outside of the kitchen. Kathan sounds as fake about it as I do when I try to speak like my mother does. “Cassander, you are an embarrassment to this household. I would like to think I had thought you better than this.” 

“Don’t worry, Kathan, he’s having a taste of those blueberries later,” Mel shouts back and I stare at the counter like it will save me from my partners ganging up on me like this. I open my mouth, consider saying whatever the fuck my brain cooks up at this point to save my scrawny ass, and throw all caution away like an ugly t-shirt. 

“Kathan, if you have issues with my jokes, then you should take it up with the clown university where I got them from. Their worksheets. They’re in my room somewhere, right beneath my clown degree.” 

Mel shakes with laughter. “You’re a delight, Cassander,” he says between laughs, and warmth spreads all over my chest. Some days I can hardly believe my luck that I met the two of them, and that we’d be here, living together, cracking silly jokes in what feels like domestic bliss. Not that I have anything to compare it to, but still. Then, Mel’s voice goes low, though still chipper. “Do you know how you’d be an even more of a delight?” 

It makes me swallow. “Tasting the blueberry?” 

“Hmm, not quite yet. I don’t think you’ve been a good enough boy for that, with all your offenses against language in the last 20 minutes.” 

I fight the urge to squirm. “You’re really not holding back, huh,” I whisper and he kisses my cheek. His hand slides to my belly and promises to dip lower, but doesn’t. I look down to where his fingers are toying with my shirt. “So, however will I atone for my sins, Daddy?” I know, I know, I shouldn’t sound so derisive about it, but it comes out as a half-mocking. Oops. 

“What are you making?” he asks firmly and his tone offers no room for ignoring. The doors slide open and Kathan stands there, arms crossed, watching with avid interest. 

“Just some pasta with veggies,” I say, looking at the bowl. “Haven’t started the pasta yet.” 

“Good. You won’t for a while.” For fuck’s sake, I’m such a goner now. “Cover the vegetables with something and come with me to the bedroom.” 

“Aren’t you hungry after a long day of work?” I try, holding onto the counter. He doesn’t look tired. If anything, he looks about ready to do whatever the fuck he wants to do with me. Food’s the last thing on his mind right now. 

“I can cook the pasta later, after we get that vibrating cock ring we’ve gotten recently,” he simply says. 

“No. You’re fucking with me right now.” Last time we used that fucking thing, he made me cry from denial. Cry. Big, fat, ugly tears, no thought, only desperation and… blue balls kinda cry. I bury my face in my hands and laugh. I suppose I am into it, if the fact I’m half-hard from all of this already is any indication. And I suppose I should’ve stopped at some point, but hey. At least he’s so hot like this, all in charge and in control, king of the castle or whatever. All he needs is a crown. For the aesthetic of it all. I’m bending like a wet napkin already. 

“Should’ve considered your words, baby,” Kathan says with intention. “No use crying over spilled milk!” 

“I hate you so much, actually. I swear to anyone who’s listening, I’m moving that music degree up the wall.” 

“You’re not helping your case whatsoever, sweetheart,” Melchior says, and moves a hand to stroke up my neck. “She’s not at fault here. If anything, you’re just adding more reasons for that cock ring.” He then looks me in the eye. His gaze is smoldering. “But you want it, do you not? You want it so desperately you are willing to act out to get it?”

Breaking eye contact is a struggle. The room falls down to us, to his hand on my skin, to the tips of our noses touching. He’s cutting off room to breathe, almost; but I don’t need air, not when he’s looking at me like that, not when that question hangs in the air. Kathan makes a noise in the background. The counter is my only refuge against the tension under my skin. 

Melchior has a way of doing that when he wants to, in a way nobody else does. When he traps me, it feels like safety. With him, the gates of the cage are wide open, but I want to stay inside the bars. A lifetime ago, I would’ve run away from that. Now, I don’t really feel like I need to. 

“Kiss me, please,” I say, unable to verbalize any of that. “Before the– the monster contraption, can you just kiss me? Please?” 

“Of course,” he says softly. The kiss is deep, yet gentle; his touch is less constricting, and it feels like a warm cocoon despite the fact that he’s about to be very fucking mean to me. The combination makes my head spin, a cocktail of hormones, feelings and hardons, and I hold on tight as his tongue plays with mine and guides it to where he needs it to be. Melchior’s hand slides down to cup my cock - a small, casual squeeze that has me moaning into his mouth before it’s gone far too soon. 

“You’re so responsive, darling,” he says and seals the words with a chaste kiss. “Too bad there won’t be any relief for you for this anytime soon.” 

And thus the softness of his presence crashes down and I tilt my head back and groan. “Are you sure I can’t write ‘I’m a good boy’ or something 100 times instead?” 

Melchior laughs. “I am.” He places a hand on my ass and squeezes. “Let’s go.” 

“By the time I’m back from work, will his punishment be done?” Kathan asks, and she sounds far too happy about it. Suspiciously happy, even. 

“And when do you come back from work?” Melchior asks Kathan, sounding entirely too considerate of the possible answer himself. Uh-oh. 

“What time is it..” She reaches for the phone in her pocket. “In about 5 hours? I’m coming home earlier today.” 

“What do you say, Cassander? Should Kathan see you orgasm when she comes back from work?” Melchior turns to me with the sharpest grin I’ve seen in months. His fangs are on display, murder weapons all four of them, and his hand squeezes my ass again. 

“I say I hate you both with the passion of a thousand suns,” I bite out, without any real heat. Five hours seems like an awful lot of time, but there’s some.. Fucking excitement! Anticipation!  For all the suffering he’s going to inflict on me for the next five hours! “But fine. Fine.” I try to sound as unaffected as I possibly can, but it’s a laughable and miserable attempt. “Will my punishment not affect access to veggie pasta?” 

“I will make you the most delicious veggie pasta,” Melchior laughs. “Hand-feed you, should you care for that. I even bought ice cream for later. We will save some for Kathan, of course. It’s hard work she’s doing, after all. We might as well give her a show, hm?” 

And since my mouth is actively conspiring against me, I reply, “Don’t forget the blueberries.” 

Melchior laughs yet again, gorgeously messily, and guides me to the start of the five hours of personalized, sexy hell, as Kathan waves us goodbye and leaves for work, laughing still. Hurray. 

Hu-fucking-ray.

#wayfarer #cassander inteus #cassander x melchior #inspo birb has come to town #my writing #i missed writing cass. and also it's baby first tumblr posted smut. i have one on ao3 but nobody read that #not sure how many people will end up reading it but here goes nothing

[i-mybrunettelady]

Ivre d'un rêve heroïque et brutal

Summary: Commander is trying to recover from her last fight with her latest enemy. Unfortunately, it’s not a smooth sailing. Content warnings: Mild blood and mentions of injury. Spoilers: Heavy spoilers for What Lies Beneath (LWS6) Title taken from José-Maria de Heredia’s sonnet, Les Conquérants.

It’s the first time she’s slept for the entirety of the night in days. Nyra’s well familiar with the blurred edges of working on interrupted, bad, or straight up absent sleep; this morning snapped into sharp focus that hasn’t left her since. 

That’s all thanks to Trahearne, his calming presence and the spell he’d devised years ago to combat this very problem. With a frustrated sigh, she admits to herself she couldn’t have done it herself. Allies are a good thing after all, she jokes inwardly, though it fails to produce more than passing, brief amusement. These days, few things can.

It’s been seven days since their encounter with the demon in the mine. Not nearly enough time to recover from merciless claws digging into her regrets and barely healed wounds, not nearly enough time to stop the terrified shake of her hands in the morning. At first, she woke in cold sweat and with trembling shoulders, wiping away tears beading in her eyes still. She could feel Rama and Yao’s sympathetic grimaces and her first instinct was to throw them in their faces. Who the fuck are they to question her strength? 

Thankfully, Nyra isn’t a slave to her instincts and she reminds herself that they both mean well and that they’re friends. Rama’s hand on her shoulder suddenly feels comforting, a far cry from the initial anger she felt bubbling inside her. Oftentimes, she leans into him, lets out a sad, exhausted groan and he wraps his hands around her. It only lasts for a minute or so, but she already feels steadier on her feet. 

Then Trahearne comes, vivacious green in the sea of jade (too vivacious for a necromancer, she thinks; another one of those brief, passing jokes she keeps telling herself) and joins her on her bedroll. His lips are soft on her forehead, his fingers gentle when they rub up and down her arm. That steadies her too. Sharply, she thinks when will Oni decide to fuck with that regret as well. 

It’s only a matter of time, really. And she has to be prepared.

“I’ll help heal injuries here,” she tells Trahearne one night, curled beside him on the bedroll. She looks at her hands. “If I think too hard about things, I’m almost half-sure the demon will have more ammo to use against me. I need something to keep myself occupied.” 

His remaining eye squints slightly. “But you won’t overwork yourself, yes?”

“I can try,” Nyra replies quietly. Her breakdown in Eye of the North is still too fresh to forget. “I can’t promise I won’t slip into it by accident. My head feels so heavy I don’t trust myself not to do it.” 

“I can watch you,” he proposes, reaching out to hold her hand. “Make sure you’re as good as you can reasonably be for Gorrik’s idea.” He considers. “I’m not sure I like it, Lyss. I know what it feels like and to see you go through it–” 

She laughs bitterly. “What other option do we have? If I have to play a sacrificial lamb, I will. Gods know I’ve done so more than once. Gods also know it’s brutal every time but if there were any other alternative, we’d have pursued it already!” She closes her eyes and exhales. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Trahearne. It’s gonna suck so bad, but someone has to do it. When my torture draws the damn thing out, just hit it until it’s dead.” 

“Lyss,” he repeats and pulls her close. “I just don’t want to see you in pain.” 

“I didn’t sign up to be who I am now to live a comfortable life,” she says. “If I wanted that, I would’ve been just another noblewoman from Divinity’s Reach. Me, just another noblewoman? Gods forbid.” 

Trahearne purses his lips. “Just take care of yourself, please.”

“I can try,” she repeats and means it. She can try. Has to, even. 

So here she is, in the mining camp’s healing corner in Gyala Delve, spreading pale blue light on an open injury on a woman’s arm. It’s an ugly one, obviously painful, and Nyra’s not the best of the best at healing, not by a long shot, but she can make these people feel better. She knows her way around poultices, salves and stitches. She knows healing magic, Dwayna’s blessing. In a twisted way, the metallic tang of blood is comforting, familiar. It’s a residue of battle and she gets to wipe it off, but the scent remains. 

Battle never leaves you, after all. She knows as much. 

The injured woman groans when Nyra guides her magic to stitch the flesh shut. Guardian healing can, in truth, feel a little invasive. Despite the supposedly unsettling way her eyes look, Nyra never breaks eye contact when she guides her down and whispers in a soft tone, “Rest now. It’ll feel better in a bit. And do try to not strain that arm much for the next few days, yeah?” 

“Yes, Commander,” the woman intones, exhausted but still horribly formal. Nyra pushes sweaty hair from her forehead and smiles slightly. She knows it doesn’t look very convincing - people think she’s angry half the time, for fuck’s sake - but she tries anyway. 

Dying light of day reflects, rickety, in the reflection of the water bowl where she washes her hands. For a brief moment, Nyra observes the way blood sticks to the scars on her hands and knuckles, bright red against faintly scorched skin. Once, she would’ve shivered in discomfort over running her fingertips over it, but now it’s a part of her. 

There’s so much blood on her hands. The thought comes uninvited, sneaky little shit. Nyra vividly remembers Apatia’s blood on her hands when she killed her ten years ago. Trahearne’s sap, when she ran through him with Caladbolg, seven years ago. What had Almorra said? That she hasn’t changed, that all she does is kill and corrupt? Nyra turns sharply to the injured woman. Her arm is still red, but mostly fine. 

If she wasn’t careful, she could’ve killed her. 

Nyra’s never washed her hands faster in her life. She leaves wet handprints on the wooden table as she leans over it, watching her own wide eyes in the bloodied surface of the water, trying to catch her breath. In and out. In and out. 

Hands hover over her arms. She knows Trahearne’s presence like the palm of her hand, a heavy blanket against her shivering body. “Are you alright?” he asks, hushed. Nyra shakes her head and grips the table tightly. 

“I think I need to take a break,” she says. Before, she would’ve pushed herself, powered through the panic; now she needs every bit of that strength she can muster. One battle, a failure at that, doesn’t mean the end of a war. She must strategise, try to outmaneuver that fucking creature. 

She feels her breathing even out. Trahearne’s holding her arms in a comforting grip, but it’s the tactical approach that makes her think straight once more. She’s a soldier, after all; why not use what’s at her disposal as such? Still, her hands are shaking and she still feels like a giant, human-shaped, raw wound. 

“Do you want to get something to eat?” Trahearne lets go of her arms to hold her hand. “Some tea?” 

“Tea would be nice,” she replies, holding onto the way he rubs her fingers like a lifeline. “Very, very nice.” 

He leans over to softly kiss her on the lips. “We’ll get one cup of tea for the lady, then,” he whispers. 

She’ll outmaneuver the enemy however she must, one cup of tea at the time.

#gw2 #inspo birb has come to town #eod spoilers #lws6 spoilers #alysannyra #trahearne #trammander #detective rama #hi im jumping on the angst fic train :)))) #also the image of a nyra with rbf and just. muted emotionless eyes smiling slightly as a way to comfort someone is sending me #that woman has many things but a comforting face? god no #still she tries #and we have a trahearne!!! #we missed him!!! #anyway. enjoy this fic #return of the nyra #gw2 pact commander #gw2 writing #gw2 fanfic #my writing