#ishgard is messed! up!

[gatheredfates]

17. — audience (Elandervier)

ONE WORD WRITING PROMPTS. Funnily enough, I was playing with a concept similar to this that hasn't amounted (yet). Consider this a prelude of sorts if I end up writing it. CONTENT WARNINGS. This fic deals with mature themes including, but not limited to: pregnancy, childbirth, mentions of abortion and women's bodily autonomy, misogyny and my personal interpretation of a woman's place in Ishgardian high-society. Please do not read if any of these are personal triggers. I have done my due diligence to warn ahead of time.

i'm glad i met the devil because he showed me i was weak, and a little piece of him is in a little piece of me.

The rage of the girl banged on the bones of the woman, all bared teeth and frothing anger. She knew her well, this outraged daughter — kicking, screaming, wailing in her hysteria, ungovernable and unknowable.

Unsightly. Unbecoming. Fifteen years on and her mother's words were ever the knife she dug into her breastbone as if to sever a rib and deliver it to the daughter. 'Yes, we are ugly. Bide your time,' it said, 'There will be deliverance soon, be still. These lessons will be useful to us.'

"I didn't know where else to go."

Elandervier didn't like that she recognised the girl's name — that she watched stony-faced and set-gazed her deliverance onto the marital bed, the third daughter in a line of women and still-born sons. The babe was passed haphazardly to her, a hiss to bathe and swaddle while the lord of the house screamed and tore down the nearby torchères like he intended to deliver them to the Hells himself. "The gods themselves fuck with me!" He declared while his wife cried and consoled him from his bed, "Of the duties you perform, you give me useless fucking women!"

This useless woman was a pragmatic woman for making it this far. The bobbin lace on her cuffs were bare and browned now, hanging by single threads in some places, but it did not waste in the snow gnawed at by the wolves. She was thin but not emaciated, the vigour in her gaze undercut only by the hand that pressed to the swell of her belly, and she looked to the witch with her mother's brown eyes — the very same which plucked her from her arms all those years ago, soothing her that she would be loved.

She would be safe.

The first lie in a thread woven by Ishgardian society, another falsehood added to the tapestry of violation — white, in that it was pure and born from a fervent wish — but would not stay when the blood was doused over the frame.

The lordlings were never pragmatic. When their sons were killed by fire, famine and fatigue they fought over the scraps of their lineage like carrion birds — all to the machine. But never their daughters. A daughter who fought was a daughter of the Brume, she lived and died destitute, but their daughters? Pretty girls waged wars on their wombs and the hearth of their houses; they were too empathic, too gentlehearted, too emotionally intelligent for the field. Ratatoskr was but a woman killed by men for seeing through the propaganda.

Control the womb, control the war.

"Whose?" Elandervier did not bother with a proper introduction, ink-dyed fingers gesturing to the pregnancy. The girl looked down and pet her skin so tenderly, even as her voice warbled with her rage.

"My lord husband's," bitterly replied, "That I should give him the pleasure."

The girl in her bones banged painfully on the filaments. That this should be what she was known for; devourer of children, the witch in the dark, the last bastion for desperate women choosing between three kinds of death; the man, the tundra or the severing of the soul. El sighed and rose to her feet, sliding a knife free from the belt on her waist as she stepped towards the girl. When she recoiled the witch shook her head and gestured for her to open her palms.

"You have choice to make," she said, settling the blade on her skin, "A sacrifice must be made."

Six months later two lords lay dead in their beds — eviscerated at the abdomen, disembowelled as if something was trying to tear it away. 'What a travesty!' the gentry declared, looking at the hysterical girl, 'That she should be delivered from the wilds by Halone's grace mere weeks after their death! What savagery, what witchcraft!'

The void knew its kin better than most: the all-consuming hunger, the revel in wild panic. Imbued in an animal and fed the blood of the babe, parricide was a indulgent taboo that fed its aether and stole their souls for the witch.

A little boy was discovered on the doorstep of a peasant house desperate for a child. After the war, they were funded by a wealthy noblewoman who kept her distance, wishing only the best for the babe. In her home, the skull of a wolf bared teeth over her fireplace where she told stories of how she fended off the wilds with naught but a knife.

One soul distilled into raw aether, given to a 'useless' girl to help her survive. The other Elandervier fed to Gobnip.

After all, she told the girl inside her bones, these lessons were useful to us.

#｡･ﾟﾟ･ — 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 : elandervier #my writing #I'M NOT SORRY FOR THISSSS #ishgard is messed! up! #thank you for coming to my ted talk! #i will not stop #no beta read i read this aloud to my partner we die like men #get it #i'll see myself out #｡･ﾟﾟ･ — sea answers things

[cryoriku]

and your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing - x

🕊 💎 🕯 🕊 💎 🕯 🕊 💎 🕯

#dark academia #ffxiv #moodboard #ishgardian #warrior of light #my moodboards #moomoo system #blood #context behind this!!!!!: my ishgardian wol while studying at the scholasticate tried to make a primal of himself to fight back against the #classism and messed up politics #then he has to flee ishgard bc hes a heretic now :'D

[impossible-rat-babies]

funniest thing is there is a non zero chance that estinien has seen/met two mothers of eyrie’s children and would have No Idea about it

mayhaps funnier is aymeric met eyrie’s daughter aoife before they met him

#high probability that estinien has also met one of eyrie’s children while he’s messing around post EW #aymeric looking at eyrie and wondering why they look familiar and passing it off #until he sees Aoife again and it’s one of those where they look almost close enough but good sense says don’t pry #Aoife has an academic interest in the politics of the church and she like Lucia has no true loyalty to Ishgard #she works with the scholasticate quite frequently #she ended up getting closer to aymeric on account of a lot of post HW clergy upheaval #an impartial opinion was occasionally needed and she was sought out first #kinda funny considering the isolation she felt after coming to Ishgard #and now she’s suddenly needed #Aoife and aymeric end up getting close….undecided if they are close friends or if there’s more going on #owen plays ffxiv

[keykidpilipili]

News from the Shinjuverse

I caved and gave Alphinaud a scent based resonant thanks to which he can smell darkness. He is not afraid to bring it up in any kind of conversation. ;)

#Alphinaud to Ryne: Minfilia and you smell the same. Ryne: what. Minfilia inside Ryne: what #shinju seeker of daybreak #ff14 au #final fantasy xiv #pili's full oc party #ff14 spoilers #shb spoilers #don't @ at me about how in japanese it was more of an aura thing i know #the smell thing is just super funny nonetheless #Alphinaud spent nine years on the source and completely forgot that echo shenanigans and weirdness was not commonly accepted #by folks from the source especially with the civil conflict between resonant/echo havers and normal peeps #he wasn't there for the worst of it but it still completely slipped from his mind with how chill the people on Norvrandt were #Shinju looked at the Crystal braves and thought sounds like a nice learning experience for the boy #nobody died but hey Alphi still felt humiliated to have nearly fucked up this bad and overdoes it trying to do better #Alphi also lowkey manipulated SHinju into letting Thordan live on basis of prime tempered study cause the boy thought 'I can fix this mess' #they both forgot about normal folks from ishgard who just broke the archbishop out when security was weaker #They are alike in the early game and so they enable each other in the worst ways possible thinking they will see the red flags #they just walk past the red flags thinking they are smarter and just trip onto the most mundane thing into a pit of problems

[toadeyes-miqote]

Duty complete

There will be no song, no claiming of trophies, no glorious tales of battle to tell by the campfire’s light for G’raha, Sadu and her Bard Boys.

He will never be her rival, there is nothing glorious in this fight.

She remained calm as he taunted and postured before her. For one who styles himself a hunter, he was no different from the rogue trophy hunters she stopped in Tailfeathers. No one had the right to turn her into something she is not.

T'kebbe and her late parents’ quest for the elite marks sprang to mind as she avoided his strikes to wear him down. Already she was going through the manoeuvres learned in life for such a situation. he was no different from a rabid beast who had developed a taste for man’s blood.

Ignoring the pain as she returned strike for strike, thoughts of Thancred and his girls sprang to mind. What the young ones had achieved in The Empty. There was so much to look forward to. The pride on his face whenever he read their letters. Thancred can lecture her on her foolhardiness all he wants later.

A certain calmness in knowing that Alisaie will not have to pick up the fight where she left off is good enough for her. Her good kiddo will have a full life of great potential before her.

She thought of her mate and that wherever he might be, Zenos will not be a threat anymore and the rest was easy. It was no different from the one hunt in which she was separated from her Huntsmates and was cornered by a maddened beast that she had to take down.

It would be most heartening to introduce her mate to her brothers and sisters-in-arms and let them feast upon the simple pleasures of forest Miqo’te hospitality.

But for this hunt, there will be no song, no claiming of trophies, no glorious tales of battle to tell by the campfire’s light. Only the duty of a hunter taking down a rabid beast and keeping the forest safe for all. For her it was only a duty to complete, to survive, to go home, to complete …..

-----

The feeling of being back in Camp Dragonhead swept over her. Crackling fire within the warm stone walls of Haurchefant’s office even as a blizzard assaults the fortress from outside, the feeling of his ever watchful eyes on her.

Vaguely she thought she heard his excited sing-song voice calling her name before a twinge of panic took over his voice, pleading her to wake. There were others with him.. familiar to her …. Pleading with someone?...

"...My green huntress.....then live for.... instead... .. The one you seek, isn't here..." she heard Haurchefant whispered in her ear. Why does he sound like he was crying?

“....If indeed you deem her the soul of your late friend reincarnated.... then help her…. Please.... She has done so much and yet ask for so little.” Was he just behind her?

“Oh come now. Surely you did not tease her with all those locations only to let her to shuffle off in this mortal coil? It would be an irresponsible way to hand your duties over to her. Your descendent was responsible for the state she’s in now.”

An annoyed hiss coming from a little distance away was what she vaguely heard, a clear authoritative snap of the fingers followed...

-----

…Vaguely she caught Thancred’s scent and a sense of controlled calm in his voice.

“..Nyan…cred?...” her voice slurred.

“..keep talking….. voice draws…. back…” There was a twinge of panic in G’raha’s scent before a sense of control that took over when he uses his exarch’s voice. Was he summoning her again?

“You can’t leave us….” Why was Alisaie crying?

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

One run! Right hook of Ishgard!! Or is that the Miqo'te uppercut!!. The lady herself as bard. I’m satisfied that I don’t have to gunbreak for this like I did Venat. I don’t have to rewrite! Monk was lvl 50 so yeah. Thank you Sabin Prince of Punch.

I get the general feeling that my Miqo’te has no idea what the hells he’s getting on about. Her values are just different and all he presented was essentially a threat to the ones that surround her.

Satisfy him once and more he would demand. He’s already making threats and doing whatever he doing to make Krile divulge WoL’s location. If Krile dosen’t divulge, who else would he harm to get information? Tataru? What odds that he realise that killing those close to her would allow her to fight him in her full fury?

How many people will die in a futile attempt to to stop him from storming the Mother Crystal. How many are strong enough to take him on and still more or less survive?

That whole hunter-prey thing got turned around in this. He’s naught but a rabid beast that had develop a taste for her blood. It bookends things for me due to the background I gave her.

Oh and cleaning up Emet’s mess, the lady understands this as being a ranger/warden (Added bonus that being Gridanian starter sits well enough for her). Meteor and Ardbert are the fighters, this shard is a hunter who understands balance and a need to cull. 

I can’t even compare him to Gouki who can fight other people when he’s not fighting Ryu. Iori Yagami maybe?

I made my Miqo’te shadowbox him in gpose…. It looks like an uppercut to the nut, since she’s only waist height to him. Not giving him the satisfaction of screenshotting it. Unlike Snake vs Ocelot, didn't get to press buttons.

Had something for the Aetherial sea. but didn't work out so retained fragments. Also didn't get comatose carry ala Shadowbringer breakdown so meh it.

The whole thing was one side with Haurchefant cradling her exhuasted soul and the others surrounding her in the Aetherial sea(don't ask). Pleading with Hades to help her somehow. On the life side Thancred was carrying her off somewhere for G'raha to do the healing, with Estinien lugging Y'sthola and Urianger like luggage to whereever it was they were to do the healing. The quartet are stupidly close to her, it could be a physical fighters kind of thing.

I like the artworks that some folks done but I accept things as is for mine own. she ended up sleeping for a spell when back on old Sharlayan. The return unfortunately wasn't as gloriously as folks hope it to be. She was barely awake and riding piggy back on Thancred(Thancred mount!), G'raha was keeping one hand on her to ease her pain. Not sure why not princess carry though.

And the quartet took turns to watch over her so that she won't wake alone. Thancred would likely be sitting by her bed since he has no duties to report that Alphinaud and the others can't handle. Estinien would be quietly sitting by the door barring entry from unnecessary visitors(anyone not a Scion or a healer unless Thancred says otherwise). G'raha won't leave her side, constantly pumping aether for healing and easing her pain. Alisaie would be staying until Alphinaud has to drag her home and she made the three guys swear not to let her wake alone.

"Lecture me all you want. Papa."

Its likely the tone of his voice being at a very comforting frequency to her Miqo'te ears. that and he's probably the only veteran Scion who acknowledge her as a person and a hero at the same time.

Possibly treating her in the way he hopes Ryne be treated. Having close friends and stuff. Estinien comes close. Alisaie would need a few more life experience. G'raha needs to know her as a person and not the hero he read from the books, else she keeps him at arm's length.

#Book 6 - Endwalker #Miqote Uppercut #Right hook of Ishgard!! #Coeurl Uppercut!!! #Shoryuken?! #Migradsommr Punch!! #Sabin be proud #Thancred be proud #No Zenos love on the battle field did not bloom for you #Naught but a rabid beast who had developed a taste for man’s blood. #Cleaning up Emet's mess #Is Yandere this? #Who a beast now? #who's the hunter who's the game #FFXIV #Final Fantasy XIV #the ones left behind #my fics #Tracking Hylnyan

[mrlarkstin]

A Brief History of a VERY Tired Elezen Pt.1

Mister Eramus Larkstin, Ishgardian Elezen, son of Yanlite and Oselle Larkstin, raised by Marie and Fenris Furor in Gridania.

Early Life

Born in the Brume in Ishgard to a temple knight (Yanlite) and stable hand (Oselle). His father was sent off to fight in the Dragonsong War and went MIA. Oselle had a heart condition and relied on both their incomes to afford her potions and herbs, upon Yanlite going missing and presumed dead as his squad had been wiped out, she thought it best to pack up with her son and venture to Gridania in the hopes the Conjurer's Guild would take pity and help her. She left a note in case her husband would return. By some miracle.

Oselle passed away just outside the gates to Gridania with Eramus in her arms. He was found with his mothers body by a lovely Hyur couple called Marie and Fenris Furor. They searched everywhere for his father but couldn't find him. They took him in and raised him as if he were their own.

Yanlite was alive and returned to Ishgard a couple years later to find his wife and child missing. In a panic he tried to follow her footsteps from her note and raced to Gridania. Upon his arrival he quickly found his son, playing with a little girl in a garden while a Hyuran man worked. Instead of racing over, he stopped to watch. Wondering where his wife was. During the night, he approached the house and knocked where he learned that his wife is dead and that the couple had been taking care of Eramus along side their daughter, Kaolin.

Yanlite saw the happy house, Eramus sleeping in a comfortable warm bed while a fire raged in the hearth near by. He couldn't, in good conscious take his child out of that and instead asked if it was possible for him to just watch from a distance and leave gifts on his birthday. He couldn't take him away and back to the broken down house they used to call a home. The Furor's were understanding, sad, but agreed. Yanlite planned to reveal himself to Eramus when he was older.

As the years went on Yanlite watched his son grow from a distance. How he'd get into fights with Wood Wailers, how he'd disappear late at night with a Duskwight boy called Foulques. How he befriended a boy who loved to talk about dragons, another Orphan from Ishgard. He'd listen to the two talk and talk while the boy helped his mothers shop. He had his mothers heart. And then the calamity hit and his son went off to fight and Yanlite was called home.

Yanlite never got to return to see his son.

Eramus returned from the Calamity, battered, beaten and broken. Blood, bodies and hopelessness all around him. Foulques missing, the little boy he used to visit in a shop dead along side his family. Luckily his parents (the Furor's) were safe, aside from damage to their home, they were safe. In honour of the little boy he befriended he got a tattoo on his shoulder. A little red dragonette in a tea cup. A symbol about how the two would chat about dragons in the boys parents shop over tea.

Eramus spent a lot of his time trying to find Foulques, but never found him until many years later. No, his life was upside down and a mess. That was, until a strange man entered his life.

#eras lore #ffxiv oc #ffxiv gpose #gpose

[maxikha-ffxiv]

Julianne lore drop time.

Things locked into place for me doing mch questline on her yesterday (I'm likely raiding as mch next expac and Jules would be my alt for that to not mess with gear drops). Here's what I got:

- (former) Count Tarresson de Dzemael was the only high ranking member of the family who actually cared for Julianne. He was the one that fully embraced her adoption and was responsible for her getting treated as well as she did growing up, even though she wasn't true Dzemael blood.

- Julianne always had a passion for healing, and was studying the abilities of the scholars of Nym whilst growing up in Ishgard/joining the arcanist's guild.

- She is involved in the storyline of the MCH questline, but as a healer assisting with keeping the machinists up instead of "MCH WoL leading the charge"

- due to Tarresson's leave of the house (he's off in kupoland), no one else in the house liking that she was treated as well as she was by him, and Tedalgrinche's multiple attempts at sabotage of the MCH guild, Julianne found herself exiled from the House due to Tedalgrinche concocting an elaborate lie.

- after the events of the MCH questline Tedalgrinche walked back his statements, her name was cleared, but Julianne hasn't learned this yet.

- Tarresson himself recommended Julianne to Sharlayan as a wonderful choice for their Sage program and promised to vouch for any Sharlayan scholars who came to Ishgard to study the church in return, as having direct support from at least one if not more of the high houses of Ishgard would be beneficial.

- Julianne hasn't talked to anyone in House Dzemael since her exile save three, Tarresson, her former handmaiden Fayeth, and Jandelaine on occasion when she needs a hair appointment (she always enjoyed his skills with hair).

- Julianne has done well in her studies to become a proper sage, to the point of beginning to prepare to take an exam to be certified to practice the craft outside of Sharlayan.

- She is currently spending time abroad to learn other forms/styles of healing, as her studies in becoming an eventual archon (goal after sage) would be based on the benefits of applying other styles of healing with Sharlayan's Sage

#Julianne Dzemael #Ffxiv #Jules lore

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

wip--letter writer

(cut inserted for implied sexual content)

Margarat straightened, using a hand on Mathye's chest to brace herself. Now she was straddling him, and she had to admit that the view was particularly nice.

"So." She said, making herself comfortable. "Tural is it? I can see why you were asking for a penpal."

"What makes you think I already don't have penpals?" Mathye countered. "I thought I'd be nice. Give you something to look forward to considering the mountain of paperwork in your office you keep shirking." He grinned as Margarat narrowed her eyes.

"You know, I've never killed a man before. Especially one that's naked and helpless in bed." This earned her a sharp smile from Mathye, all white teeth with a flash of fang.

"I'd like to see you try." Giving into temptation, he reached up to gently trace his fingers up one of Margarat's forearms.

"You are aware the moment word gets out you're on the western continent every Thomas, Dickerson and Harris will be arriving in droves." Margarat spread her fingers, feeling the steady beat of Mathye's heart beneath her palm.

"We know. Can't be helped. Just hoping we get a little time to see what's going on before the waters get muddy." Mathye grunted as Margarat shifted position.

"And you're sure this...'threat' is legitimate?" She asked, making air-quotes with her fingers.

"No, which is why we want to investigate. It wouldn't hurt to confirm. If it's naught to be concerned about that's fine. If it is something to be worried about..." Mathye trailed off. "Then we're getting as much information as possible, maybe buy some time. I don't doubt that the Grand Alliance can defend themselves when it comes to it, but the state of everyone's military..."

"Is still poor." Margarat finished. Mathye nodded.

"Ishgard was only just getting back on its feet when the Final Days struck. And we got off lightly compared to Gridania and Ala Mhigo. And then there's Garlemald--if they were attacked, the Ilsabard Contingent would probably need more support and that's enough of a political mess as is." Margarat nodded, understanding.

#ffxiv #mathye bishop #ffxiv margarat #a wip #DEDICATED TO THE WALNUTS OF THE FC WHO INSTIGATED THIS

[myreia]

DIVERGENCE OF THE HEART

CHAPTER EIGHT: CARPE DIEM

Chapter Rating: Explicit Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Aymeric de Borel, Thancred Waters, Hilda Ware Pairings: Aureia/Aymeric, Aureia/Thancred, Thancred/Hilda Chapter Words: 6,093 Notes: Set during the Heavensward patches. This chapter contains explicit sexual content. Summary: Aureia Malathar may have made a name for herself in Ishgard, but her deeds come with a hefty personal toll. Despite her victories at the Grand Melee she has never felt more unsure of herself. Her relationship with Thancred—the person she thought knew her the best—is strained, yet she cannot abandon him. Aymeric is falling for her harder with each passing day, yet she cannot bring herself to accept it. All may be fair in love and war, but at least war is predictable. Love on the other hand… Chapters: 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 Read on AO3

For the second time that night, Aureia stands outside the Borel Manor, huddled in her soaked coat with her hands tucked into her armpits. Her hair is a sodden mess around her shoulders, dark tangles plastered against her chin and neck. Her tunic clings uncomfortable to her damp and clammy skin. Her muddy boots are so water-logged she can hear it sloshing around with every step and she wear she can feel her toes pruning inside their socks. Fire-aspect aether and clever little orbs will do little to warm her now.

She can still feel Thancred’s touch on her. No amount of rain can wash that away now.

For a brief moment in the alley she considered following him to the infirmary. She wondered what she would say to him, moons of grievances and rising tensions and frustrations tumbling out of her all at once. Her overwhelming guilt once she discovered he was alive. His bitter envy upon his return. His growing resentfulness towards her and Ishgard. His refusal to accept what happened to Minfilia. His relationship with Hilda—if she can even call it that—was one thing, perhaps even something she has come to accept. But everything else?

It is not something that can be fixed with a kiss in an alleyway.

She doesn’t know if it can ever be fixed. Their bond is as scarred as the brands upon her back. There is too much painful history between them. How can she say she loves him when the sight of him makes her furious?

And so she turned her back on the alley and walked back to the Pillars. She has no desire to hole up alone in the Forgotten Knight, nor test her patience against Edmont’s scrutiny in the comfort of the Fortemps Manor. She wants to see Aymeric. Needs to see him. She owes him an apology for her earlier behaviour, perhaps an explanation, if he will accept it. She left him startled and confused with the way she kissed him, and it does not sit well with her leave that thread hanging.

Besides, she left her rapier here, she can’t go to Xelphatol without it. That’s as good a reason as any to call upon him this late at night. Knowing him, he will still be awake. Working.

Swallowing any remaining nervousness, Aureia strides up to the manor gates. The knights—miserable with their nightly post, but too professional to complain—recognize her instantly and wave her through without comment. She nods her thanks, grateful not to have a repeat of Gillesoireaux, and hurries up the path to the front door. The estate is dark save for a few lights flickering from the second-floor windows. Clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, she knocks rapidly on the door and waits, praying that someone will answer.

Silence.

She curses. Shifting her weight from foot to foot and trying her best to ignore the sloshing noise, she raps furiously on the door a second time. And a third. Hail rains down, pelting the path behind her with tiny balls of ice.

She is raising her fist for a fourth attempt when the door swings open.

Light spills outward from the foyer, backlighting a tall Elezen man. His thick, bushy eyebrows frown at her and he tuts disapprovingly.

“Mistress Malathar! This is quite a surprise,” Marcel says with no surprise. “Ser Aymeric informed me you would be attending Saint Vaindreau’s Grace to accompany one of your fellow Scions. An injured maiden, or so I was told. Is this no longer the case?

“Alisaie is in good hands with her brother watching over her,” Aureia replies. “I would merely get underfoot.”

“Then may I inquire as to what brings you to our doorstep? My lord finds himself absorbed in his work tonight, immersed in the important tedium of drafting memos and preparing requisitions. Hardly the work for more than one mind, I’m afraid. I fear you may find yourself—how did you put it?—underfoot.”

She blinks impassively, fixing him with a cold look. “I left my weapons here. I came to collect them.”

“Indeed.” Marcel reaches behind the door and withdraws her rapier and focus, proffering them to her. “An unfortunate slip of the mind, I see. My staff were quite happy to hold them until your return.”

She takes them from his outstretched hand and attaches them to her waist. “Thank you—”

“And now if this concludes your business? Goodnight, mademoiselle—”

“Wait!” Her hand flies out, catching the door as Marcel moves to close it. Part of her can only think of how pathetic she must look, standing here on the doorstep like a sopping wet cat, mewling to be let in. But she is determined. She has to see Aymeric. It doesn’t have to be for long—just long enough to tell him how sorry she is. “I have news for Ser Aymeric. It is of terrible importance. He must know at once.”

His eyes narrow, seeing through her ruse. It is a weak excuse, but she is gambling on his pride as a butler and a senior member of the Borel staff. He may not believe her, but on the off-chance that she is telling the truth, he cannot risk turning her away.

“It is nearing the toll of the midnight bell, Mistress Malathar,” Marcel says finally. “What is this message? I am happy to inform Ser Aymeric—”

“It is something I am entrusted to tell him. Scion business. Urgent.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh and throws the door wide open. “Enter, then,” he says, stepping aside as she trundles across the threshold. He winces at the mess her boots make on the floor. “And please wipe your feet.”

She does. It does little to help.

“Oh, for Fury’s sake…” Marcel tuts and snaps the door closed. “Leave your boots there if you must. My lord is in his study. Second floor, down the hall to your right, and the third door on the left. And I beg you, my lady, please try not to make a mess on your way up.”

Aureia gives him as grateful a smile as she can muster and does as she is told. She strips off her boots and socks, leaving them in a careful pile to the side of the threshold. Striding past Marcel, she sweeps up the stairs and wrings out her hair, raking her fingers through the dark strands to give it some semblance of professionalism.

The upstairs hall is dark but cozy. Vases of lilacs and seasonal flowers from the Twelveswood and the Dravanian Forelands line the hallway, interspersed between small bookcases and plush benches. Lanterns light the way, their gentle glow reflected in the saturated darkness of the window panes.

She heads down the corridor, shivering from head to toe and dripping water with every step. Though she tries once or twice to mop up after herself, she simply leaves more water on the floor than before. Muttering a curse, she gives up and hurries to the end. Aymeric’s study is easy enough to find—through the door, she can hear the unmistakable crackle of flames in a hearth and the steady hum of his voice as he talks to himself, composing one missive or another.

Brushing her hair behind her ears, she breathes in a deep breath and opens the door.

Aymeric leans against his desk, a sheaf of parchment in one hand and a quill in the other. He has traded his comfortable doublet for the attire of the Lord Commander as if he is prepared to launch an attack on Xelphatol tonight. He chews his lower lip, lost in thought, and eyes trained on the letter.

“Marcel, I promise I will rest once I have composed—” He looks up, mouth open in astonishment. “Aureia? What brings you here? Has Alisaie taken a turn for the worst—?”

Aureia closes the door. “She’s fine, Aymeric. She is in good hands.”

“Thank Halone.” He exhales a relieved breath only to pause, his eyes narrowing with concern. There’s no hiding her damp hair or her soaked coat or her miserable little bare feet on the polished wood floor. “But what has happened to you? By the Fury, you must be freezing—”

“Don’t worry about me.” She folds her arms tightly around herself, doing her best to hide her chattering teeth. “Caught in bad weather.”

He sets his missive down. “Take the coat off and sit down,” he says, gesturing the couch. The crackling hearth illuminates it in a warm glow, the flickering light playing off the ornamental rug on the floor. An Ishgardian hunting scene is woven into the carpet. Knights ride the fields on their chocobos while dragoons chase the skies, while the Fury looks on from Her seat. Loops of halone gerbera decorate the fringes. “I will not have you catching cold on account of me.”

She smiles and holds out a hand, palm up. Three small orbs burst to life, their flames warming her skin. “This is me you’re talking about, remember?”

He shoots her a look. The joke has done nothing to ease his concern. “Aureia, please, you’re chilled to the bone. Take the coat off and sit. Let me call Marcel, I’m sure there is spare clothing in the servants’ quarters—”

“No need. I don’t plan to be here for long.” Sensing that he won’t let it go easily, she acquiesces and closes her palm, snuffing the flames out. She removes her rapier and shrugs off the coat, throwing the sodden red leather over the back of the couch. She shivers and tugs at her tunic, the damp fabric clinging to her breasts. She feels exposed without her coat. “I came to apologize.”

Aymeric blinks in confusion. For a briefest of moments, his gaze flicks down, staring at her damnable wet tunic before quickly correcting himself. “There is nothing you have done that you must apologize for,” he says quietly.  

“There is.” She wets her lower lip and rests a hand on the couch, tugging absently at a decorative throw blanket tossed over its back. “Earlier tonight, I behaved… Poorly, I think. The wine, perhaps, is to blame, though that does not excuse it. I should never have kissed you—”

“And I said there is nothing you must apologize for.”

His voice is firm. He pushes away from his desk, drawing himself to his full height, his hands resting at his sides. With his profile cast half in shadows, his eyes shine bright with all the intensity and passion she has come to know him for. The gold and sapphire earring glitters, catching the firelight.

She swallows, raising her chin to meet his eyes. Gods… she never quite realized until now tall he is compared to her. “Nevertheless I will.”

“Then it is an apology I will not accept.”

“Aymeric—”

He strides across the room, seizes her face in his hands and kisses her. She gasps in surprise, trembling with an electric sensation as if she has consumed too much mana at once. He holds her close, bending to accommodate their difference in height. His hands are warm, his kiss gentle but fervent, a culmination of all the things left unspoken between them. 

She pauses, a moment of hesitation whirling through her mind, demanding to know if this is the right call. But frightened though she is, she trusts him. She trusts the love he has for her. If she backs away now, there will be no going back.

This is for her.

Aureia melts into his arms, looping her hands around his neck and threading her fingers in his dark hair. Her lips part and she kisses him furiously in return, clinging to him with the intention of never letting go. This is not like the kiss she had drunkenly given him earlier tonight, misguided by wine and spurred on by foolishness. Tataru’s tea has done its work. Her mind is clear, her desires free. She knows what she wants.

He is her safe haven. Her refuge from the storm. When her life is so turbulent, there is nothing she craves more than the safe, steady presence of the person who loves her.

“Aymeric…” She draws back and rests her forehead against his. Her lips ache from his touch, the bruise of Thancred’s kiss stinging beneath it. She closes her mind to it. “Is this what you want? Truly?”

He chuckles. “Yes,” he breathes and she can hear his smile. “Truly.”

Aymeric kisses her, nuzzling softly as he trails across her cheek and jaw to the place beneath her ear. He cups his hands, mindful of the delicate points of her ears, and threads his fingers in her hair. She presses herself to him, a flush spreading across her chest, over her heart. Her damp clothes cling heavily to her, pressing into her body, weighing her down. She trembles, both gently warm and feverishly cold. Fire and ice. Ice and fire. Forever and always.

He presses a hand to her cheek and tilts her head up, blue eyes meeting red. “You’re shivering,” he murmurs.

“Wet and cold will do that to a person,” she says with a quiet smile.

His fingers toy with the neckline of her tunic. “It is warm by the hearth.”

“It is.” She covers his hand with hers, guiding him to the buttons.

He inhales sharply. His touch is hesitant, almost as if he still cannot quite believe that she is here. “Quite warm indeed.”

“Yes.” She tugs at a button. “Perhaps we should—”

“Aye, perhaps we…” He bows his head, capturing her mouth with his. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him to her, flushing with anticipation when his hands brush against her breasts as he undoes the buttons one by one. He does not break the kiss as he loosens her tunic and peels the damp fabric away, dropping it to the floor.

She steps back, bringing him with her as she searches for the hearth. He grunts softly and grips her waist, pulling her a stop. He tugs at the laces of her trousers and slips a thumb over the waistband. She laughs against his lips as they tangle around her legs, and she hops from one foot to the other, kicking them down the rest of the way. Her skin prickles from the cold of standing half-naked in an Ishgardian manor, but the feel of Aymeric’s hands on her body chases it away. When her bare feet trod from smooth wood to thick carpet, the heat of the crackling fire hits her, rushing up her calves and back.

Aymeric deepens the kiss, his hands pressing carefully into the small of her back, and gently lowers her to the floor. She sinks into the rug with a contented sigh, his weight pressing comfortingly into her as he covers her body with his. The hearth crackles, its warmth chasing away the chill. She tilts her chin, hair splayed around her head in a dark halo, tangled above the loops of embroidered halone gerbera. A pleasurable shiver runs down her spine as his lips wander from her mouth to her jaw to the hollow of her throat.

There is something achingly slow about his touch that sets a fire in her belly, any sense of urgency melting away with every passing moment. He kisses her in tenderness, mindful of aching bruises and reddened marks. He kisses her in worship, entranced by every part of her. A stray thought crosses her mind as he fiddles with her bandeau pulls it free, her breasts prickling with the chill of the air and the warmth of the fire. Only he could find a way to be so damn polite even as he—

His tongue flicks across her nipple. A moan escapes her lips and she grasps fistfuls of his overshirt. He chuckles, encouraged, and cups her breast with his hand. She swallows another moan, her breath hitching. Her mind fuzzes as if she has drunk too much wine, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth, the intensity of his kiss, the touch of his tongue… and she finds herself wanting more.

A distant part of her finds it odd. Hypocritical, perhaps. She doesn’t yet know what to do with, but she is not prepared to throw it away. For years she thought she hadn’t care. Her interest so dry, so absent, she assumed desire was out of reach. But Aymeric has found it for her, somehow cutting through years of personal grief and anxieties in a single instance.

His mouth returns to hers, kissing her deeply and openly, his palm sliding across her stomach. His fingers skim the edges of her underthings and she knows what he intends to do next. The natural progression. Her heart pounds at the thought, her mind brimming with curiosity and excitement and anticipation—

The panic comes crashing through. Her stomach twists, dread knotting deep inside, and she breaks the kiss, biting her tongue, frozen with indecision. What does she say? Nothing? Something? How does she tell him that—

Aymeric brushes her cheek with a hand. “Aureia?” he murmurs, concern in his voice.

She meets his eyes and exhales a breath. Somehow, she is able to calm her heart. Looking at him, seeing the way he looks at her… She knows she is safe with him. She can tell him anything. Admit anything. Even the deepest, most embarrassing parts of her. “I’m sorry,” she begins.

He blinks, surprised, and rolls off her. “If I have behaved discourteously at all, if I have caused you harm, please, you must only say so—”

She catches his hand. “It’s not that. I promise.”

He nods, comforted, and squeezes her hand. “Do you not wish for this?” he asks.

“It’s not that, either.”

She swallows hard and entwines her fingers with his. Sensing her struggle to speak, Aymeric allows her to pull him down beside her. He lies on his side and stretches out on the decorative rug, waiting patiently. She hesitates, uncertain how to explain, and stares at the vaulted ceiling above. The golden chandelier, the periwinkle wallpaper, the top shelves of the well-kept bookcases that line the walls. The statue of Halone on the mantlepiece, impassive and stern. She is not religious—and she is certainly not a follower of Ishgard’s patron god—and yet the goddess’ presence brings a blush to her cheeks.

When she woke this morning, she never expected find herself lying half-naked, breasts bare, on the floor of Aymeric’s study. And yet she is glad for it. Grateful. When she pushes through the layers of her fears and anxieties, that is what she finds.

Happiness.

Aureia rolls onto her stomach. The fire warms her branded back and for once the scars do not hurt. “I’ve never been with someone, Aymeric,” she says. “Not like this. Not in this way. A humiliating state to be in, for someone my age…”

His gaze is lost in her face. “I do not believe that,” he says.  

“You don’t understand. I am thirty-two and I have never had sex. That is not exactly normal by any cultural standard, Eorzean or otherwise.”

“And?”

She blinks. It shouldn’t be more simple than that. Does he not comprehend why this is so profoundly embarrassing? “And..?”

“And how would this fact be of such radical importance that it would be the sole cause of a change in my opinion of you? Do you believe it so crucial to your identity that I should judge you differently for it?”

She presses her lips together, uncertain what to say. Her hand lingers in his, toying with his fingers. “No, I don’t think that at all. I suppose I feel I’m… a failure, somehow. As a person.”

It feels strange to admit aloud, this expression of a thought she has had for so many years. A perceived lack of self-worth defined by her inexperience with sex and romance, an assumption that something must be wrong with her because she has never slept with anyone. Maybe she is finally understanding now that that is all it has been all along. A perception. Not a truth.

He squeezes her hand, gently encouraging her to continue. She rolls onto her side and inches herself close to him, her legs tangling with his. He can’t be comfortable, lying here in uniform. “I know the rumours,” she says. “Eorzea has been whispering about my love life since the Praetorium burned. That so many would choose to waste their time obsessively speculating about who I want in my bed… I hate it, Aymeric. Not their nosiness, but the assumptions. I feel judged with every whisper, and the truth would bring no relief. You are either a harlot or a prude.”

He is silent for a time. But his hand…

His hand does not leave hers.

“I have no patience for rumourmongers,” he says finally. “They are fuelled by fabrications, contents to consume falsehoods about the lives of very real people with little care for the truth. They seek to pass judgement, priding themselves on their own superiority.”

“I know that. And yet I still feel this way.”

“Aureia, I have not held the position I do without attracting my fair share of unwanted attention. A moon cannot pass in which the taverns of the Brume or the dining halls of the High Houses share some ardent examination of my actions. I have been called a romantic philanderer accused of climbing the ranks from bastard viscount of a minor house to commander of the Temple Knights simply to woo the women of the aristocracy. Just as I have been as a celibate priest married in spirit to my country and my goddess.”

She makes a face and shuffles closer, resting a hand on his chest. Beneath the thick layers of black, blue and gold, she feels his heart beating. Thundering. Though his voice is steady, he must be as nervous as she is. Perhaps this is as new to him as it is to her. “That’s hardly fair. Nor is it true.”

“It is not.” He exhales a long breath and joins her in gazing up at the ceiling. “The truth is not so exorbitant. But if we are to share our dastardly secrets about our private lives, then mine is that I have only shared myself with one other. We were barely more than boys then.” He sounds distant, lost in thought, his tone bittersweet. As if grieving something that could never be. “But he has since passed out of my life in that way. It was a long time ago.”

She blinks. “Aymeric…”

“I care not if I am your first. I simply wish to be with you tonight.”

She pushes herself up on an elbow and looks down at him, her still-damp hair sticking to her collarbone. He meets her eyes, a gentle smile on his lips. He looks so strangely vulnerable here, lying on the floor of his study, the gold of his uniform glinting in the firelight. He raises a hand, cupping her cheek.

“I would know you,” he continues, his voice raw. “All of you. If you would let me.”

Aureia smiles. In answer, she presses her mouth to his and straddles him. A low contented sound rumbles in his throat. His hands roam slowly across her with curious deliberateness, caressing her curves, exploring her back. When his fingers brush her scars, he is tender and unafraid, treating them no differently than the rest of her body. When he cups her breast, his thumb toys gently with her nipple. Soft yet deliberate strokes coax a sigh from her lips and she shivers, heat pooling between her legs. She shifts her weight, her thighs pressing tight against his hips.

She hums with delight and deepens the kiss, ignoring the ache in her lips. It’s a good ache, a wonderful ache. Her hands roam his chest, searching for the countless buttons and clasps and hooks that fastens his uniform in place. A never-ending amount of buttons and clasps and hooks, she discovers. No matter how many she loosens there always seems to be more.

Aymeric laughs and draws back, breaking the kiss. He sinks into the rug, fingers brushing her jaw, and stares at her with firelight in his eyes. “Far too intricate for its own good, is it not?” he says.

“Honestly. I don’t know how you manage to get into this every day without help.”

“Training, one might say. A more challenging endeavour than passing the trials required to become a temple knight.” He sits up and kisses her cheek, yanking on the unfastened mess with a practiced hand. She waits, watching with curiosity as he strips away his uniform until he is left in tight trousers and a loose undershirt. She tilts her head, fiddling with the hem, and pulls it up over his head.

He is pale beneath the shirt, his skin noticeably marred but no more than her own. Fresh bruises from regular training, healing well on their own. A lattice of old scars, silvery and dim, the mark of a man who has been at war for too long. Others are not so ancient. There is a sickening precision to the reddened, twisted skin, remnants of the torture he suffered at the hands of the Heavens’ Ward. The ugly scar on his side, a gift from the Ishgardian who attempted to murder him in the streets.

He has suffered for his beliefs. His resolve. His unerring determination to do what is best for Ishgard, no matter the personal cost. So many have tried to stop him. How many more will?

Aureia rests her hands on his shoulders. “What now?” she murmurs, pulling herself into his lap and locks her legs around him. She moves on instinct, rocking her hips back and forth, chasing the pleasurable friction. Her breasts brush against his chest and she trembles at the touch.

She isn’t sure whether he even likes it, but it feels right.

Aymeric falls silent and pulls her to him, resting his head in the crook of her neck. His hands grip her, roaming her up and down her back. Entwined as they are, she can feel his heart pounding against hers.

She slows.

His breath ghosts across her ear. “Do not stop,” he murmurs. “Please.”

She smiles. She moves her hips, grinding against him, sensing the growing bulge in his trousers. He groans, the sound lost in the crook of her neck, and he drags his lips across her skin, fierce enough to leave a mark. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging on the strands. He kisses her ear, careful of the small silver rings, and runs his tongue across the sensitive spots until a half-sigh bubbles across her lips.

Her thighs tense. The tension between them is mounting, and she is not afraid. The feel of his body against hers exhilarates her. Emboldens her. Protects her. She knows that when she is him, she is safe.

She kisses him openly, eagerly, fingernails raking down his back. They linger in the moment, teasing and testing, his tongue in her mouth. Her hips roll rhythmically, the soft fabric of his trousers pulling with her movement. She can feel him hardening beneath her, his desire for her coaxed more and more with every touch. Giddy, she kisses his jaw, his ear, his collarbone, eager to discover more.

Aymeric moans, a rush of words lost in the headiness of the moment. He grips her hips and in a smooth, controlled motion, flips her onto her back. She squeals in mock protest as she sinks into the floor, lifts her legs and wraps them firmly around his hips before pulling him on top of her.

He grins, his laughter rumbling in her ears. He leans over her, forearms planted on either side, and watches her breathlessly. She stares up at him in return, flushed with anticipation, and reaches between them. When her hand cups the hardened bulge, he closes his eyes, his teeth scraping his lower lip.

“Aureia, I…”

She strokes him and he curses, dark hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes. Emboldened, she tangles her fingers in the laces, tugging them loose.

He groans and kisses her. “Not yet,” he murmurs against her lips. “Later. There is something I wish to accomplish first.”

She laughs, eyes bright with curiosity, and a shiver courses down her spine. He leaves her mouth, roaming her body. Her neck arches as he cups her breasts, his tongue running across a taut nipple. She aches with pleasure and in this moment is difficult to know what is warmer, the hearth or his touch.

“And what would that be?” she asks, though an idea has already cemented itself in her mind.

He chuckles huskily, his lips pressed against a scar below her navel, and hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband of her underthings. She inhales and lifts her hips, allowing him to peel them away, and settles back against the floor, the rug brushing roughly against her bare ass.

Aymeric leans over her, hesitant, his eyes trained on hers. His gaze is so tender in the firelight, so intimate, a part of her wonders whether he has looked at anyone else that way. Somehow, though they are coiled together on the floor of his study, she doubts there could be anything more romantic.

He kisses her. Softly. Gently. His hands brush her inner thighs, and her legs fall apart at his touch. He settles between them, kissing slowly, determinedly, teasing her with feather-light kisses in all the right places save the one she wants. A knot of anticipation coils in her stomach. It begs to be released.

His mouth is on her.

She shakes at the first touch of his tongue, the feel of his kiss igniting something in her more powerful than any mana font. A moan rips from her throat and she arches her back as his tongue slides through the slick heat, searching for the sweetest spot.

But she knows where she wants to be kissed. She knows better than him.

The word is lost in a ragged breath, so she shows him with her fingers. He murmurs, his breath ghosting across her sensitive skin, and her hand falls aside. When his tongue flicks against the bundle of nerves, she trembles and moans, and rakes her fingers through his hair, pulling him close.

He is gentle, but relentless, his tongue lapping against her in hungry, urgent kisses. He has her mewling helplessly on the floor, entranced by sensations she had never considered possible. Her breasts ache, her hips move of their own volition, rolling against his mouth as he nips and sucks. She has touched herself, true, but her time alone could never compare to something like this.

He slips a hand between her thighs, stroking a finger through her wet folds. She sucks in a breath, whimpering in anticipation, desperate for additional sensation. When he presses hesitantly at her entrance, she curses and moans, a stuttering demand fluttering on her lips. He obliges and slips the finger inside her, the sting lost in the sea of everything else. A stray thought crosses her mind, searching for an explanation—his fingers are larger than hers, of course it would feel different.

He laps at her as he thrusts, building pressure in a way she could never achieve on her own. She trembles, the firelight glowing through her closed eyelids. He builds such a reckless frenzy in her that she aches for something more. To bring her to the edge and to push her over it. Or for something else. Something more. She wants to feel him. On her. With her. Inside her.

Desire courses through her. He grips her bucking hips, holding her tight as his tongue lavishes her thoroughly. She releases his hair, her arms flopping uselessly to her sides, and her fingers rake across the rug, scratching unpredictable patterns in the fibres. The final burst overtakes her and she cries out, back arching, legs shaking, as a last wave of pleasure rolls through her.

Finally, she exhales a long, ragged breath and sinks into the rug. Her hair is damp, sweat clings to her breasts. Her body aches in a way that is not unlike how she feels after an afternoon at the training grounds. She is exhausted but restless, a whirlwind of emotions she cannot make sense of swirling through her.

Her knees fall together and she curls onto her side, searching for Aymeric. He sits beside her and meets her eyes, a giddy, half-lidded smile on his face.

No words are necessary. He bends down and kisses her, an unknown taste on his lips.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. The ache in her voice would embarrass her if she were with anyone else. But not with him.

He rests his forehead against hers. “May I confess?”

“Hm…” She chuckles, biting her lower lip as she smiles. “Am I your priest now?”

He pauses then collapses against her, shaking with laughter. “By the Fury, you are relentless.”

“Can you blame me? I would never let such an opportunity pass me by.”

“I should have expected nothing less. But I ask again—may I confess?”

She hums contentedly and nuzzles against his cheek. “Of course. Tell me.”

“I have been stricken with thoughts of you for a time now. When you walked through that door tonight, I could but wonder where you intentions may lead us and hope, perhaps, for a resolution. I would proclaim myself a liar if I said I have not imagined, if only in brief, a moment quite like this one.”

She pauses. “Aymeric, are you telling me that you daydreamed about putting your mouth on me on your office floor?”

“I would put my mouth on you wherever you so wished. This study. My bedchambers. The depths of the Forgotten Knight or the heights of Saint Reymanaud’s cathedral. If you so wished it.”

The declaration may be an exaggeration, but there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes her heart ache. He is not one to say things he does not mean. Still trembling from the aftermath, from the slight chill creeping in from the windows and beneath the door, from the faint recognition of what this will mean for them come the morning, Aureia presses her mouth to his and kisses him deeply.

“I want to be in your bed tonight,” she murmurs.

“Aye,” he replies. “I would wish for nothing else.”

Hesitant to break the kiss, he reaches to the side and pulls the decorative blanket from the couch. He wraps it around her, its delicate fabric soft against her naked skin, and effortlessly scoops her into his arms. She loops her hands around his neck, resting her head happily against his shoulder as he carries her across the study with ease. He moves assuredly, his steadiness betrayed by the pounding of his heart—he is as nervous and excited as she is. Her feet flex, her legs tangled in the flowing blanket, and she bends them to avoid bashing against the furniture as they pass by.

The door to his private chambers sits between a pair of twin bookcases. He gives her a kiss and reaches for the handle, jostling it awkwardly as he balances her weight in his arms. Finally, it clicks and swings open—and he stops in his tracks.

She blinks in surprise. “What is it?” she asks.

He glances over his shoulder at the crackling hearth. “Marcel set it under the assumption I would be engrossed in work well past dawn,” he explains.

She arches an eyebrow.

“I am a fool, but not one who would leave such a fire unattended. Allow me a moment, I will—”

Aureia smiles. Raising a hand, she focuses her aether and manifests three small orbs of crystalline ice. They circle the palm of her hand, blue-white light flickering gently. She blows upon them and they drift away, floating across the study to hover above the hearth.

The flames snuff out, plunging the room into darkness.

Aymeric lingers in the threshold. The study is quiet, with nothing but the sound of their breath to break the silence. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he adjusts her in his arms and carries her through, closing the door behind them.

#ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv fic #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv wol #aymeric de borel #aureia malathar #wolmeric #oc tag #writing tag

[marzipanladyart]

Some headcanons about Basildere Valtin:

he is 66;

born in Ishgard;

divorced with two kids: older son Bernon and younger daughter Ophelie - Bernon has his own small daughter Lisie, whom Basil adores, but his son hates him, so he can only see her like twice a month (with Ophelie to accompany them);

he used to be a paladin but resigned from being a knight to pursue science - something his wife didn't approve of, she wanted a man and he was too sensitive for her;

he is polite and collected, also pretty good at pretending that everything is alright;

as a Sharlayan professor he is strict and demanding, but students respect him cause he is also helpful and has a great sense of humor;

he owns a small house near the sea in Sharlayan;

every evening he takes a walk through the city and watches a sunset;

he was injured in a fight - has a big scar through his back and a messed up spine which wasn't healed properly and once in a while the pain paralyzes him;

he loves gardening: his place is full of plants and he has a small garden he spends a lot of time in;

sometimes wears glasses;

he thinks he deserves every bad thing that happened to him;

loner;

closeted gay

#Basildere #ffxiv #marzipan yapping #might add more later

[dawnslight-aegis]

19. weal

(cw for implied torture and general Vault-related awfulness.)

Grief hung heavy in the Fortemps household, an almost physical presence. Kaede endured it for as long as she could, but a bell before midnight she escaped out into the cold, desperate to be free of the guilt that choked and clawed at her throat.

Her steps took her away from the Pillars, through Foundation, and nearly to the city gates themselves before she could stop herself from running away. A part of her wanted to keep going – Haurchefant had been the entire reason she was welcome in the city, the entire reason she was safe, and now he was gone. She could simply walk out of Ishgard and return to the life she’d had before the Bloody Banquet. The temptation was there, to flee and to never look back.

Instead, she turned her steps towards the Congregation, the place still a hive of activity in the wake of the heretic attacks on the city and the chaos of the Vault. She drew stares as she walked through the halls, but no challenges – apparently dragging their Lord Commander from the bowels of Ishgard’s worst prison had earned her the right to pass uncontested. She had a mind to visit the infirmary – the act of cleaning wounds and changing bandages would do nothing to assauge her guilt, but at least it would be something to do. The first few rooms were empty, but the third open door she passed ground her to a stop.

Aymeric sat on the edge of the bed inside, papers dangling loosely from his hands, but he made no attempt to look at them. Exhaustion was writ plain in every line of his slumped shoulders, in the way his eyes were unfocused, trained on the floor before him, the blue irises all but swallowed by the dark circles that ringed them. White bandages wound around his broad torso, speaking to the extent of his wounds – though the fact that the last time she’d seen him, he could barely stand upright, had told her more than enough.

He did not look up until she had taken several steps through the doorway, his mind clearly far away. Kaede suspected they’d all left parts of themselves in the Vault, and Aymeric more than most.

His gaze found hers and he shook his head slightly, as if to clear it. “Kaede? Why are you –”

His normally smooth voice was rough with exhaustion – or perhaps overuse – and Kaede shoved aside the implications of that, refusing to think too hard on it.

“Shouldn’t you be at home, Lord Commander? Resting?”

Aymeric glanced down at the papers in his hand for a moment. “Perhaps. I told myself there was work to be done, but…” He sighed, the force of it traveling visibly through his entire frame, but the exhale quickly slid sideways into a hiss of pain as his shoulders flexed.

Raising her eyebrows, Kaede walked around to the side of the bed, heedless of the way Aymeric’s eyes followed her in surprise. Instead her attention was trained on his back, the gauze stained rust-red with old blood.

“These should have been changed a bell ago.”

“The chirurgeons have their hands full, and I am not in any danger,” he murmured, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice.

She waved off his protests as she collected a nearby basin of water, pot of salve, and roll of fresh linen bandages, secretly pleased at the glimpse of unbroken spirit. “Yes yes, fine. Just turn around and let me see.”

Aymeric hesitated for a long moment, looking at her with a strange, unknowable expression, then slowly nodded and turned his back to her.

Settling on the edge of the bed next to him, she wordlessly unwound the soiled dressing, carefully peeling it away from the gashes and weals left by whip and blade. Horror settled in as she saw fully the ruined mess the inquisitors had made of his flesh, and gods, it wasn’t as if she needed another reason to bury her sword in Thordan’s black heart, but he’d seen fit to give her one, regardless.

Kaede quickly yanked her mind off of that path, instead devoting all of her focus to keeping her hands steady and her touch light as she washed his wounds with clean water and liberally covered them in salve, mindful of every quiet sharp inhale or suppressed twitch of pain.

He did not speak until she had finished carefully securing the bandages in place, murmuring a quiet “thank you, my friend,” into the cool night air.

Four simple words, containing a bottomless well of nameless emotion, which made it clear that he did not mean them merely for the dressing of his wounds.

‘Twas for his benefit that any of them had set foot within the Vault, after all. A fact that doubtless caused him no end of guilt and pain, but that she could do nothing to absolve him of, burdened as she was by her own. But neither would she lay any blame at his feet.

She stood and took a step back. “You’re welcome. See that you get at least some rest, Aymeric. I fear you’ll need it.”

Moving more easily than he had before, Aymeric turned, eyes fixed on her as if searching for something. After a moment, he nodded. “We all will.”

At his words, her mouth twisted – normally she would stay either in her guest room at Fortemps Manor, or the inn room she had reserved with Marzanna, but one lay beneath a heavy cloud of despair, and the other consumed by a storm of guilt-fueled rage. Kaede was certain that tomorrow, one or the other would stir to life in the icy numbness of her heart, but she had no wish to hasten the process.

Aymeric’s grief was quiet, aimed inwards in a way that did not make her want to scream and rend flesh from bone, but his presence grounded her against the temptation to sink into her own thoughts that solitude brought.

Perhaps her own could do the same for him.

Instead of leaving, as she’d intended, Kaede plucked from the bed the paperwork that Aymeric had put down earlier, relocating it to a distant table as he watched, mystified.

“What, may I ask, are you doing, my lady?”

With a disaffected toss of her braid over her shoulder, Kaede pulled a chair near to, but not next to, the side of the bed. She settled into it, arms crossed and leaning against the wall before she answered tartly, “Ensuring that you rest.”

Aymeric tilted his head, eyes narrowed as if he meant to protest, but the longer he studied her, the more his expression softened, until he finally summoned the wan ghost of a smile to his face and laid down on his stomach. Almost the moment he was settled, his breathing deepened and evened, exhaustion bearing him away as soon as he relaxed his guard for even an instant.

Stifling a jaw-cracking yawn, Kaede allowed herself to be lulled to sleep by the quiet sound of it, holding the depth of the ache in her heart at bay for just long enough.

Tomorrow she would set aside a broken shield and take up her claymore in pursuit of vengeance, but tonight, she would take what rest she could find.

#oops I tripped and all this hurt/comfort came falling out of my pockets #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite 2023 #wolmeric #aymeric de borel #ffxiv fanfiction #tales from the dawn #look if the game is going to make the poor man suffer at least let us go visit him afterward

[gatheredfates]

SKINNING THE CHILDREN FOR A WAR DRUM.

#my edits #｡･ﾟﾟ･ — 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 : elandervier #｡･ﾟﾟ･ — 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 : alaice #inhales #YELLS #I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS ABOUT HOW MESS UP ISHGARD IS!!!!!!!!!! #something something circle of death circle of suffering #based heavily on that ask i did recently of el and alaice #all we are is a nation of children churned out for a war machine! #like damn u think garlemald is fucked #(it is but it's the same) #i also don't know why the second image looks ~crisper~ than the first despite me doing nothing to it #graphics design is my passion

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2023 Day 28: Blunt

“The delegation from Werlyt is here,” the Resistance soldier said, voice rough. The temperature in the room seemed to cool as the Alliance representatives tried not to tense but did regardless.

Members of Werlyt’s provisional government—a kindly-looking elderly Raen woman, next to a middle-aged Midlander gentleman—stepped inside the room. At their backs were their escorts and the commander of Werlyt’s nascent military: Gaius Baelsar, and his two companions. They did not wear uniforms, still in their adventuring attire. Kan-E cleared her throat and looked at Raubahn, as their host.

He smiled tightly and bowed to the Raen and Midlander. “Counselors, thank you for coming all this way. Our civic representatives await you in their chambers to speak on the trade agreements.”

“Very good, General Aldynn,” the woman said in a reedy voice. “Commander Baelsar, we leave you to the military matters.”

“Of course, Counselor,” Gaius answered mildly. He nodded to the young woman at his side, and she followed the counselors as Raubahn escorted them on to the representative chambers.

There was a moment of awkward silence, until Nanamo finally spoke up. “You should join us at the table, Commander.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, taking the seat often filled by Hien or other representatives of the Eastern Alliance.

“This is still weird,” Lyse blurted, then bit her lip, cheeks almost as red as her dress.

Gaius actually smiled slightly. “It is, Commander Hext. I am well aware I’m still not welcome in Ala Mhigo, nor the rest of Eorzea. And that many of you do not want me at this table.” He looked at each of them, and the careful neutrality on each of their faces, the tension in their shoulders. “Yet here I am, to do my duty to Werlyt and its safety—for which we have been thankful for the Alliance’s aid.”

“Duty,” Merlwyb said harshly. “As it was duty that led to your attempts to conquer the rest of our realm.”

“Admiral,” Aymeric gently admonished.

“No,” Gaius replied. “The Admiral is partly correct. I fervently believed that my duty to the Empire meant proving Nael van Darnus wrong. That I would be vindicated in His Radiance’s eyes, and regain his favor if I brought all of Eorzea under the Imperial banner. But in the end, it was mostly due my own pride.” He frowned, folding his hands on the table top. “Then Lahabrea played me for a fool—and I learned even my Emperor was one of those masked bastards; my entire life, all that I had believed, a scheme of the servants of chaos.

“I’ve had to learn much, these last few years. There is little I can do for those I have wronged; better people are better placed to aid them. So I work to clean up the messes my arrogance created—such as the Weapons Project—and to see Werlyt and its neighbors free and safe from the Legions.”

“A lot of words,” Raubahn said as he rejoined them.

“Yet there is a candor to them to be appreciated,” Kan-E said.

“How much of it was the Warrior of Light knocking sense into you?” Lyse asked.

“Lyse,” Pipin sighed.

Gaius chuckled. “Quite a bit, actually. Not to mention our interactions since; I’ve learned more than I thought possible. Other comrades have also helped teach an old wolf new tricks,” he said, glancing at his Duskwight companion. Then he sobered, turning his attention back to them. “Now, if you are satisfied, we should discuss our actual business.”

There was silence for a long moment, before Merlwyb spoke up again. “There are many who still think ill of the pirates of Limsa Lominsa, seeing only our violent past. Count Charlemend de Durendaire, for instance, had choice words for me, on one of my first visits to Ishgard, given what happened to his son’s ship years ago.”

(This time Lyse did bite her tongue.)

The Admiral continued. “If my colleagues here were willing to work with pirates and plunderers, looking beyond our recent history and believing with me that we could change, and be more than that…Well, I’d be a fool and a hypocrite to not attempt to extend the same courtesy to Werlyt’s Commander.”

The others nodded, a little of the tension in the room fading—though still present. It wasn’t ever going to ease entirely, they all knew, but so long as they remained honest and focused on their duty to their respective nations and their allies, they would manage.

#final fantasy xiv #ffxivwrite2023 #Lyn Writing #Endwalker #Shadowbringers #Gaius Baelsar #Gang's All Here

[houserosaire]

The Heart of the Matter: Part One

(A background story relating to some Priarch RP things that are coming up. Silvaineaux is Ser Not Appearing in This Story, but Honore gets a mention because it's related to his history.)

Achille wondered who the snuffbox had belonged to. It was a pretty little thing, gold and bright enamel with the design of a unicorn fighting a serpent in a field of flowers. The blood on the beast’s horn and wounded shoulder shone as brilliantly crimson as real blood did when it was fresh. That thought gave him a morbid little chill and he set the box down abruptly. He still had no idea who it had belonged to. 

Like most of the things in this room, it had become familiar over the last week. By that same token he supposed it didn’t matter who it had belonged to originally since it was his now, just like everything else in the maze of rooms and indeed like the rather hideous castle itself. He picked up the snuffbox again, eyeing it a second time, this time wondering if he liked it enough to take it home with him when his mother finally consented to leave again. He didn’t like the blood on the unicorn; he decided and set it down again. 

This time as his eyes slid past the tall mirror he caught his valet’s reflection in it. Thibault was frowning at him as he smoothed out the velvet of a coat, and something in the grim set of the man’s lips put the matter of the snuffbox entirely out of his mind.

“You look like something is troubling you.” he said turning away from the small table and the tall mirror.

Thibault set the jacket carefully on the coverlet and folded his arms. “We’ve got problems.” He said. “Below stairs.”

Achille drew himself up to his full height and took a deep breath. “Tell me.”

“The maids say it’s a bad place, this house.” Thibault said, his grim face making him look more like a thug than ever. “And the footmen and such don’t like it much either. They’ve been talking about it ever since we got here last week. The maids say the place gives them the chills and the men say there’s something happening down in the low levels when they’ve been down there. The wine cellar and such. They hate being down there.”

“And of course my mother’s had them down doing a full inventory of that and looking for the lost Fleursanglante gold or something.”

Thibault nodded, and the light of the candles made deep shadows in the vicious scars around one of his golden eyes. “She has.” He said. “And I don’t mind telling you they’ve hated it. There’s been rumblings. But now it’s worse.”

Achille swallowed. “How much worse?” 

“We’ve lost one of the footmen.”

“What do you mean you have lost him? Did he give notice?”

Thibault shook his head. “No. I mean he’s gone. If he’d given notice his being gone wouldn’t hardly be surprising now would it, my Lord?”

“What do you mean he’s gone?! Where can he have gone? This bloody place is in the middle of nowhere. It took ages to get here and it was cold and that was when the weather was clear. It’s been blizzards for days. No one would try to make their way down that hideous mountain road and back to Ishgard in this.” Achille glanced at the window as he spoke. But the weather had not mysteriously seen fit to clear and he could see nothing outside it save a hideous bounty of snow swirling down and a chunk of nearby wall so nearly obscured by it that he wasn’t certain where the top was.

“I mean that he is gone.” Thibault said. “As near as anybody remembers he went down for something or another yesterday and no one has seen him since. He missed supper and he also didn’t turn up for breakfast this morning.”

Achille took this in for a moment in silence, then ran a hand viciously through his hair and swore in a way he wouldn’t have if there had been anyone but Thibault to see him. “Halone’s frigid fucking knees!”

“Aye, my lord.” Thibault agreed. “It’s a right fucking mess.”

“You sincerely mean to tell me that someone went down into the basement of this bloody place and got lost?”

“As far as anybody can tell, aye.”

“I suppose… they’ve looked for him?” “Aye. And not a damn trace. His lantern is missing too. P’raps he stole it and went to hock it for the money to start a new life in Ul’dah as a merchant prince.” Thibault said.

“She did not actually suggest that…” Achille said, a horrible sinking feeling in his chest.

“If the maid who overheard it is to be believed she said something of the like, yes.”

“I see.” Achille wondered yet again how his mother could be so very good at making people of their own class like her and so horrible with everyone else. “So how bad is it? How many are looking to give notice as soon as we can get out of the storm.”

“At least half.” Thibault said. “They really don’t like this house. It’s nothing but eerie stories of a night. They say the place is haunted or cursed or both.”

Achille frowned. “And what do you think?”

Thibault lifted a hand to his chin, running his thumb thoughtfully over a small scar there. It was a big hand, calloused and scarred, for Thibault had been a soldier before ever he was a valet. Achille sometimes thought one of his parents must have been a giant. “I think there’s something wrong with this place.” Thibault said at last in his calm matter of fact way.

Ice settled into the pit of Achille’s stomach. He had not thought anything could really unsettle Thibault, but the look in the valet’s eyes as they met his own was decidedly uneasy. “What do you mean?” He whispered.

“I mean I think there is something wrong here.” Thibault said. “I don’t know as I believe in ghosts or spirits or curses, but I do know when I’ve come into a place where something wants to kill me. And this place feels like it is hungry. Way down in the low levels there’s something that shivers in your bones… and I don’t mind telling you my nights are bad. Bad like in the war. I keep hearing dragonsong in my dreams, like when they were massing for battle.”

“I haven’t noticed anything like that.” Achille said, and then at the look in Thibault’s eyes hastily added. “Which doesn’t mean I don’t believe you. A footman doesn’t just vanish into nothing, and no one would steal a damned lantern and flee out into that.” He gestured toward the window. 

“No. They wouldn’t.” Thibault agreed. 

Achille glanced at the snuffbox, frowning just a little. “Perhaps we can learn something about the place.” He said. “The storm should blow over soon. I’ll send a letter then. The last lord that held this place is gone with all his family. But the one before that… There’s one person left who lived here from the family before that. I’ll write a letter to him, see if he’ll speak to me about it. And I’ll go talk to them downstairs myself and have a look… if you think that would help.”

“I do think it would help.” Thibault said. “People like being taken seriously when they’re afraid.”

“Well before I go down you can let them know I am taking it seriously.” He said. “I suppose you’d better get me into that coat for dinner. And then I’ll write a letter.”

Thibault raised an eyebrow. 

“To Lord Honore of House Rosaire that was Aurelien Fleursanglante. As far as I am aware he is the only still living person who can claim to have lived here for any amount of time.”

#RP nonsense #my writings #Honore's backstory adjacent #Introducing: #Viscount Achille de Voland #and Thibault Greystone #Priarch stuff

[sjofn-lofnsdottr]

Elftober 22: Reverent

Dusk has a complicated relationship with Halone. He was dragged to services as a small kid in Ishgard, of course. He remembers hymns, and having to be quiet, and some of the prayers he heard other people say, but it wasn't as intensely part of his life as it would've been had his family stayed there. As soon as his family had fled moved to Gridania, Halone's presence in his life fell off a bit, especially since Gridanians are way more into Nophica.

Even so, he didn't entirely shake the way Ishgardians worship Halone. His parents and grandparents still revere her, after all, and even though he is nowhere near devout himself, his mind goes to Her first when he feels the urge to pray (which isn't often, mind you). He feels conflicted about this, however, since he's also well aware how messed up the theocracy was, how terrible things were often rationalized as being for Her. He knows that's not Halone's fault, exactly, but it's difficult for him not to think about when she comes to mind.

#ffxiv #gpose #elftober #just dusk #character ramblings #late again :D

[ablekable]

Going insane about Duskwight Estinien & Ferndale

Around 9 months ago I started playing FFXIV and I decided to play a duskwight and unfortunately you don't see many duskwights (and I only just did the ShB trials and Lancer quests so for a while my frame of reference was that one random duskwight getting bullied at a tavern in ARR and Mother Miounne) BUT I very recently learned that one of my favorite characters Estinien was definitely a duskwight in 1.0 (not explicitly stated but his skin tone is way too pale for wildwood/ishgardian and also had a greenish tint)

So for funsies I very quickly adopted this hc that he's still Duskwight, but I didn't really expand on it too much. It wasn't until I was talking with a friend about my WOL (Lunelle) that I mentioned that I might have messed up and not given Lunelle a duskwight last name and his response was just "just make them Ishgardian." Initially I dismissed the idea because despite the numerous elezen in Ishgard I didn't remember any of them having duskwight features nor did I think any of them would identify with wildwood or duskwight anymore which is a problem as being duskwight is important to Lunelle's identity. So Ishgard itself was out of the question but what about other places in Coerthas? (The ShB trials actually helped me a lot here because I frequently thought of the duskwights in Gyr Abania so some of them going to Coerthas didn't seem too farfetched.) That's when I thought of Estinien again and by extension I thought of Ferndale. I'll admit that I haven't dug too deep into anything about Ferndale aside from where it used to be on the Coerthas map. From what I can gather all we really know is that it was a small settlement outside of Ishgard, Nidhogg attacked it, and Estinien is the only survivor. There's a lot we don't know about Ferndale (nor the other settlements that were destroyed in the same rampageas im pretty sure Alberic mentions multiple) which turns out to be great for me because I get to make up almost whatever I want. So enter my very self indulgent headcanons: Ferndale was a settlement of duskwights & Coerthas had other settlements of duskwights Not necessarily relevant to Ferndale but I also hc Ysayle as a duskwight because she uses a duskwight model and I love her. (And what other reasons do you need really?) This also gave me a reason to think about how Lunelle and Estinien would interact with each other. Not to mention I love being self indulgent and the idea of them being childhood friends was too cute to pass up, but rambling about those two (and another Ishgardian elezen I adore) is for a later post.

#my thoughts #ffxiv #estinien varlineau #estinien wyrmblood #duskwight #ffxiv elezen #lunelle clairemont #idk how else to tag this #duskwight estinien #that works