#CH:K𝔫𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰♥ᴹᵒᵗʰ'ⁱʳ♥ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

heirsofdiscord · 8 months

Text

Kicking Far, Kicking Wide

FFXIVwrite prompt #5: Barbarous | 3034words Mercilessly or impudently violent or cruel, savage.

The Burn was an insufferable prick. It was an immutable fact you could bet on but Bukidai’s money was all tied up in running his mentor’s business now that he’d left. Which really meant that it was now his business and his responsibility. One of those responsibilities meant making sure their hired muscle were unobtrusively doing their jobs. He'd made the mistake of letting The Burn have that role and now he needed to fix it.

Bukidai had just managed to smooth things over with the customer that The Burn had managed to get into an altercation with. By the skin of the teeth, if you asked him. Masterfully if you asked anyone else. The fact Bukidai served as an on sight healer had helped.

Bukidai didn’t bother healer The Burn who was glowering up at him from the seat of his chair like a spoiled brat. Bukidai stood over him, arms crossed behind his back and his head raised high. Bukidai always thought himself small and kind of pathetic. Which, compared to other Au Ra men, he kind of was at his mere 6’7”. Here, however, in the desert of Thanlan, only the giant Roegadyn really towered over him. There were exceptions. The Burn was not one. Unfortunately, The Burn’s ego made him feel like he was twenty fulms high and almost as wide. The Auri man ran through the various things he could say to him but he couldn’t think of anything that would actually get through the idiot’s thick skull.

Deflating, Bukidai said instead “,you’re off bouncer duty and don’t be here during open hours. We’ll figure out something else for you to do.”

The Burn leapt up from seating all vim and vigor. He shouted, louder than was necessary for a man standing next to another “,all because I beat that guy’s ass? Do you have any idea what he said to me?”

“No!” Bukidai shouted right back, throwing his hands up dismissively. “I don’t care! It doesn’t matter! None of the things you have ever flipped your lid over has ever mattered. That man was drunk and you’re sober. Do you have any idea what half our patrons tell me within a bell of happy hour? At some point you have to be the responsible one and let it slide off your back.”

Bukidai turned away from him and marched off but The Burn followed him. “I’m not like you! I don’t care if they’re drunk or sober, I’m not going to let any idiot disrespect me.”

When this failed to get a rise out of the taller man, the viera added an ill advised “,this is probably why that guy left you here, you know. You’re just a dainty little wall flower that lets people walk all over you. I woulda left you too.”

Despite being from the Steppes, Bukidai wasn’t an aggressive man. He enjoyed a good tussle like every other Xaela, but violence for violence wasn’t something he cared for. There had to be reason; sport. The Burn just had a damned good way of finding one’s weak spot and punching as hard as he could at it. There were few who knew the reason why Bukidai was in Thanalan was because he’d been dumped there by a lover without a gil to his name. Had Moth’ir not picked him off the streets well.. Bukidai was in the business of helping those who’d had it worse.

Bukidai stood in the doorway between the Tavern and the backrooms, his face flushed and staring directly at a dozen people staring back at him wide eyed. Including Ibuki, The Burn’s ever suffering girlfriend who was gracefully helping man the bar in Bukidai’s absence. Every single one of them had heard what The Burn had said. Considering this, his voice was overly calm and level. “Is it another fight you’re looking for.”

It should have been a question. It wasn’t.

It unnerved The Burn but he grabbed at his ever flowing supply of bravado and got over it easily enough “,yeah and what if I am. I’ve had it with your stupid face and trying to make things good that ain’t good and-”

“Alley,” Bukidai cut him off and marched back the way they came.

Bukidai had never once in all this time accepted a fight with The Burn. He was infuriatingly good at deflecting him. The Burn was too foolhardy to recognize the shift as a threat and instead took it as a victory. He trailed after him and, judging by the sound of several chairs sliding over tile, so were several of the Dapper Than’s customers. It wasn’t every day you got a fight outside the coliseum, and for free.

“Aren’t you going to get your staff?” The Burn asked tauntingly.

“Won’t need it,” Bukidai replied.

The Burn rolled his eyes but grinned. Bukidai wasn’t a fist fighter like he was but if he wanted to make it easy, he wasn’t going to complain. All the better to wipe that sanctimonious look off his face. They arrived at the alley and Bukidai turned to him, adjusting to a combat stance in a movement so smooth The Burn almost missed it.

“At least take your heels off,” The Burn said, chuckling to himself.

“Won’t need to,” Bukidai replied again, but this time The Burn could see the cold look on his face.

The Burn played it off like he was losing interest “If you’re not going to take this seriously then I can just go. I’ll come back when you can give me a real fight.”

“This isn’t about a real fight, though,” Bukidai said. “This isn’t about peers testing their arms against each other or proving anything worthwhile. It’s about you fighting everyone because you can’t fight yourself and are too stupid to speak in any language that doesn’t involve your fists. You wanna make me bloody. Don’t pretend you give a damn about me if I sprain an ankle.”

That last part smarted but not the way Bukidai thought it did. Not that The Burn had any way of telling him anything about his feelings. He didn't understand them himself. Bukidai was right. The only way he knew how to talk was in a fight. “Fine! You wanna get beaten so bad I’m happy to oblige.”

The Burn thought he was starting the fight with a surprise kick but Bukidai was fast and read him like a book. He easily side stepped his blow and the one after that. And the one after that. And the one after that. “Are you going to fight or just dodge, asshole?”

Bukidai’s face was making him angry. It was all disappointment and fatigue. Like he was dealing with a rather annoying gnat rather than The Burn, who considered himself quite the fighter. He’d not considered what it meant to be a warrior of the Steppe. Both Bukidai and The Burn had spent their youths learning to fight but where The Burn had learned to survive against the beasts of his namesake, Bukidai had been lovingly taught by family. When it came to this, Bukidai with his adoration and respect for his teachers and combat itself was always going to come out on top. He had the same expression as the wood-warder that had tried teaching him before he fled the forest he was born.

Rage had consumed his mind; all his grief. He poured it behind his fist and lunged for Bukidai. All the fury it had taken to come out of The Burn alive. But Bukidai simply side stepped him again, grabbed his arm and twisted him around before slamming his knee into the smaller man’s back. This sent him sailing through the air and directly into a bunch of garbage. The Burn was going to crack a comment about how Bukidai was always chiding him for collateral damage but then he processed the fact he was smelling a lot like alcohol.

Before he could right himself, Bukidai had grabbed him and dragged him away. Despite his thrashing he wasn’t let go until Bukidai was damn well ready to drop him. The Xaela man wasn’t just a physical combatant, he was a magic user. It was fairly simple for him to conjur the elements of stone, water and wind to him. He raised a finger and pointed it over the lamp that now hung over The Burn’s head. It'd be a simple thing for him to break it. Only then did the Viera realize he’d let himself be led directly into a waiting inferno and he was covered in accelerant.

He had completely forgotten that Bukidai had also been Moth’ir’s favorite student.

Moth’ir was a 5’2” nothing kind of guy. He looked strong enough but he was also quick as a whip. The Burn knew that because unlike Bukidai, Moth’ir had clocked him a few times when he’d stepped out of line. He’d been in the middle of telling Moth’ir he could either fight him or shove it when he’d find himself flat on whatever surface was nearby. Moth’ir didn’t even seem bothered half the time save for maybe a twitching of the very tip of his fluffy tail.

There was a day in the past when Moth’ir had led him out into the desert on a job. He’d gotten himself into something of a big fuss and this supposed job was meant to smooth over the trouble he’d caused. The longer they walked the less The Burn was enthusiastic about the idea, which he’d never been keen on. Apologizing wasn’t something The Burn had done since he was very small and he wasn’t about to do it now.

He’d complained the entire way though Moth’ir grew curiously quiet as they went on. The man was full of long drawn out stories, snappy comebacks and cruel remarks that were said so affably one was hard pressed to be offended. Though The Burn always took offense. Now though he was as silent as the grave. This unsettled even The Burn who’d spent his formative years in an desolate land surrounded by aether starved beasts.

Moth'ir had tucked his mirrored glasses into his shirt and then his knives were out. He'd tried to stab The Burn. The attack had been so abrupt the only reason The Burn had been able to dodge was because he was already on alert. This began one of the longest fights of his life. Outside the first attack, Moth’ir was only playing with him like a cat and a mouse. The Burn had always thought himself the strongest person alive. Surely no one else had ever had to do what he'd done and come out alive. At least everyone he’d ever fought had fallen to him eventually even if he was a bit messed up himself by the end. Moth’ir, like Bukidai, proved to him he wasn’t worth shit when it came to someone who’d actually embraced their art. Never once did The Burn land a hit but unlike Bukidai, this wasn’t about making a point as soon as possible. Moth’ir forced him to fight to the very point of exhaustion and granted his attempts to stop with a new knick of his knives.

It wasn’t until The Burn was well and truly unable to move that Moth’ir stopped. He’d sat over his chest and pressed both his knives to his neck. The Burn wheezed with bitter sentiment “,what are you going to do? Kill me and just leave the body here?”

“No,” Moth’ir stared at him coldly. The Burn hadn’t noticed until know he had two different eyes; one brown one a pale gold. “Because that’s what you want and I’m not keen on giving you shit.”

The Burn tried to protest despite how heavy his lungs felt but Moth’ir’s voice rose. The fangs endemic to Keepers of the Moon Miqo’te flashing threateningly from behind his lips. “Don’t try denying it. There’s no other rhyme or reason for the shit you do and I recognize where that comes from well enough because I don’t want to be here either!”

The Burn had heard Moth’ir be angry but not like this. Moth’ir was all quiet venom and bitter notes. This was the kind of fire one only gets when they’re pushed to the very brink of fatigue of living. The kind of thing that continues boiling away in one’s stomach unable to go anywhere so it just burns away from the inside. There was something terribly dead about Moth’ir’s eyes.

“I don’t know where you came from and I frankly don’t give a shit,” Moth’ir snapped at him. “But that little girl you came with from Kugane cares about you so much and Bukidai too for some ungodly reason. You got one foot in the grave and one with the living but soon enough you'll have to choose between or you're gonna drag everyone down with you.”

Moth’ir’s face was twisting with a certain kind of grief. He knew. He knew but The Burn wasn’t ready to acknowledge anything he was saying. He swung at him but it was a sad thing Moth’ir couldn’t have been hit by it even if he’d tried to meet it. Instead he settled for wheezing a pathetic “Fuck. You.”

Moth’ir shook his head, disgust on full display on his face before he popped his shades back over those eyes. He lifted himself off of The Burn and readjusted his clothes before going digging around in his pack. He retrieved two potions from his pack ─ one for health, one for stamina ─ and placed them next to The Burn’s head along with a water pack. The Burn would later note ruefully that Moth’ir hadn’t cut him deeper than the health potion could heal. It shouldn’t have been possible to have that sort of precision in a fight but that was a testament to the distance between Moth’ir and him.

Moth’ir told him “,you need to get stronger and I don’t mean the meat that’s draining all your brain power. Figure out what’s important and why you should fight on the way back. Consider it your payment for me fixing another gods be damned mess of yours.”

The rogue whistled loudly. A draft chocobo, more fit for a roegadyn than a short miqo’te man, came zipping in from the malm or so ago Moth’ir had left her. Her pink feathers matched the pink he’d dyed the tips of his brown curls but she contrasted him greatly with her cheerful little kwehs. Despite her height, Moth’ir deftly rose to the seat of her saddle though he lingered there a moment to say to The Burn “,You think you named yourself that because you conquered that place but you carry that name because you never left.”

And with that the pink chocobo went trotting off into the desert. Moth’ir knew it wasn’t a talk he was ready for but he made damned sure it was ingrained in his head. Like a seed that just needed the right conditions to sprout. It wasn't his job to water it though.

“This,” Bukidai roared down on The Burn. Wiggling his finger at the lantern again for emphasis. “This! Is how easy it would be to kill you. You don’t think! You just throw yourself at everything with your fists out like there won’t be consequences. Not everybody you fight is going to forget about it afterwards and what are you going to do when someone’s stronger or smarter than you and actually wants you dead.”

“Do you have any idea how it feels to watch you keep throwing yourself at these fights as your friend? What about her?” Bukidai jammed a thumb in Ibuki’s direction. “How the hell is she going to feel when you get yourself killed?”

Ibuki stood there with tired worry painted on her face. It was an old worry, the kind that returned over and over and that she accepted would come again. Disappointment, no surprise and no hope. The Burn turned his face from hers unable to look directly at her anymore. Shame was boiling in the pit of his stomach where it combined with the rest of his unattended emotions making it all feel like rage. Ibuki would forgive him. She always did but The Burn knew it wouldn’t last forever. He didn't deserve that.

He hadn’t always been like this. There was a time he was a perfectly happy child who loved easily. Then the wood-warder came to take him away. He hadn’t wanted to leave and all the talk about duty and tradition felt like his family pushing him away. The wood-warder tried but he wasn’t interested in learning, he’d wanted warmth. So he ran. At any moment he thought someone would get him but his feet touched white sand and there was no going back. That’s how it was with Viera and the forest. You leave, you can never come back. So he learned to live in The Burn. It felt righteous to be there. Every obstacle a punishment for his leaving. Every pain another punishment for his failings. He pretended that surviving it had been an accomplishment but Moth’ir was right; he’d never left.

“Go home and get yourself cleaned up,” Bukidai told him before rambling to himself about the many variable things he’d need to do. He’d need to do something at the bar to keep spirits high after a rather disappointing showing. The crowd had begun to disperse after they realized their fight was turning into a familial scolding. Save for Bukidai’s neighbors who were doing a piss poor job at covering their rapt attention. He was so engrossed he almost missed the barely audible mumblings that The Burn had emitted. “What was that?”

“I said I’m sorry!” The Burn said. Words piled up in the back of his throat but he couldn’t get them past his clenched teeth. The pressure was stinging at his eyes but he wouldn’t let tears flow. He’d already humiliated himself enough for one night.

Ibuki and Bukidai exchanged glances and he relented. Sighing and throwing up his hands in a shrug Bukidai said “,It’s a start.”

#ffxiv #FFXIVwrite #FFXIVwrite2023 #cwwrit #CH:R𝔞𝔟𝔟𝔦𝔱 𝔓𝔲𝔫𝔠𝔥 ♦ᵀʰᵉ ᴮᵘʳⁿ♦#CH:A𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔠 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱 ♥ᴵᵇᵘᵏⁱ♥#CH:L𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔥♥ᴮᵘᵏⁱᵈᵃⁱ♥#CH:K𝔫𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰♥ᴹᵒᵗʰ'ⁱʳ♥#would you like a story about Moth'ir's shittiest son

8 notes · View notes

heirsofdiscord · 8 months

Text

Scars

FFXIVwrite prompt #2: Bark | 1130 words a sound resembling a sharp explosive cry

Yorick hadn't been paying attention to know when the conversation had started. Only that Montresor was detailing the thrilling tale of the faint scar on his cheek one moment ─ thrilling, if having no idea was thrilling ─ and the next the group had turned and inquired about the scar under Yorick’s eye. The miqo’te man slowly looked up from his book at his companions to fix them with a baleful stare. He preferred to spend his free time alone but he found himself dragged along to another casual meeting of associates under the pretense that it wouldn’t be a fuss. Of course, that was inevitably a lie. In no small part because Yorick was a fussy man by nature so “not fussing” him was nigh impossible.

He touched the aforementioned scar. Or rather, where he thought it might be. Really he didn't know which eye it was and barely registered it was even there half the time. It was a thing of ancient history as much a part of him as anything he’d been born with. "Dog bite," was the clipped answer he gave.

"Kinda straight for a bite," Moth’ir commented drly. Whose own scars, across the chest and at his side, were results of a surgery and one “special occasion”. He didn’t elaborate save to wiggle his eyebrows and state it was a wild night they could ask Thancred about. No one present was going to do that.

"It was a good chirurgen," Yorick shrugged.

Hibernia nodded solemnly like she understood ",so that's why you don’t like dogs.”

Yorick’s ever present frown deepened with ever increasing annoyance. Though he tried very hard not to trouble Hibernia with it who was only Seventeen and didn’t deserve that kind of ire. "No, I don’t like dogs because they’re needy, loud and too much responsibility for a guy who isn’t particularly good at taking care of himself.”

Yorick’s mother had raised many dogs during his childhood and was probably still doing so. His whole family was rather fond of the creatures. Fondness he had shared once before he realized how truly bad all of them were at training them. Many times he had found himself the sole person looking after a group of unruly hounds who weren’t above snapping at each other if it meant they’d be the sole target of affection. It was a special kind of hell.

He wasn’t fond of cats either.

“This,” he tapped the side of his face in lieu of gesturing to the scar he didn’t actually remember the location of “,is the story of why I don’t talk to my father.”

“Go on,” Montresor bid him, knowing full well he’d leave it there if he didn’t ask. His other associates glanced at each other before leaning in with curiosity. Making it evident they weren’t going to let it go.

Yorick sighed. Talking about his bitter past wasn’t exactly something he was fond of doing. Luckily this story didn’t fall into his things-I-refuse-to-speak-of category but into the things-I-will-gladly-complain-about-at-the-drop-of-a-hat. Complaining was something he did with the ease of breathing. The problem here was more trying to find the place to start.

“Dad came back sometime after I was born. Story about wanting to know his kid and be a good father or whatever, y’know how it is.” Yorick waved a hand dismissively. It was a crock of shit as far as he was concerned. “He did all sorts of jobs back then. Sometimes went and built shit for folks.”

He had been a stablehand actually and just helped his boss with fixing things around town. He’d allegedly taken that job because Yorick was interested in chocobos and horses as a child. Horses were rare but chocobos at least were more doable. Yorick would remember that with some amusement. Especially while being trailed by the Nightmare that had taken to following him at some point in his journey for reasons that he didn’t understand. There was something deeply unsettling about a black steed with a flaming horn kicking its hooves at you. More so as it had an uncanny habit of showing up when Yorick needed a ride..

Wasn’t fond of horses much anymore either.

“Took me with him once to a job. Nice house, two dogs. Played with them while dad worked. Then one of them got a sticker in their paw. You know those seeds with little barbs on them? I went to take it out and well…” Yorick gestured to himself. “Ma said she’d told him that we’d be fine. Healers had it covered and it wasn’t going to cost us but he went and made sure those people paid up for it. Think it was 3000 gil at the time. Shoulda been 5 grand by the time I’d reach adulthood.”

“He took it and skipped town,” Moth’ir piped in flatly.

Yorick’s expression and gesturing somehow both communicated that Moth’ir was correct and his father should be embarrassed by how predictable he’d been. “Didn’t leave me nothin’ but a scar I can’t even brag about.”

“That’s awful.” Hibernia lamented.

Yorick shrugged. “That’s life.”

Moth’ir elbowed him roughly before turning to Hibernia and saying something alluding that families were messy and it wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t all good either, Montresor added. The conversation was drifting in another direction and Yorick allowed himself to fall back out of it and into his own thoughts. Too busy now to retreat back into his book.

It hadn’t been the whole story of course. The whole story was long and tedious and more than Yorick wanted to get into at the moment. They didn’t find out he’d stolen that money until well after he’d left the twelveswood for good. He’d been furious his bid to get custody of Yorick out from under his mother’s nose hadn’t panned out the way he wanted. Apparently you can’t just get your way by falsely accusing someone of being a drug addled lush and that meant everyone was out to get him, specifically.

On his thirtieth birthday, Yorick had received a letter under his old name that simply said that he was still loved. Yorick almost dismissed it, thinking it from an old escapade until he checked the name again and recognized it for his father. Yorick was furious right up until the moment he realized he wasn’t. Feelings of anger had been mechanical, acting like he thought he should but there wasn’t any actual fire to it. It just didn’t have anything to do with him.

Yorick’s father had abandoned him for a small bit of wealth and his own pride. An animal who was rather fond of running his mouth, spewing words that had no purpose of meaning. All of it just sound.

Yorick wasn’t particularly fond of people either.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2023 #ffxivwrite #cwwrit #CH: Yorick Nelhah #CH:K𝔫𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰♥ᴹᵒᵗʰ'ⁱʳ♥#Montie and Hibernia are here too but are they?

5 notes · View notes