#distressed mhigan noises

[aethernoise]

Cane of the White Griffin, aka “I don’t like WHM that much but I might as well stick with it until Ishgard and then maybe switch to AST or BRD.........fuck, ok, I guess I’ll go to 60.”

#how have I never looked at this weapon before #it's more subtle than the blm rod #like you can't really tell it's a griffin until you get close #which is kinda cool #anyway #distressed mhigan noises #rhodry vance #emmer screens

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV: Pearls of Wisdom

A/N: This opening sentence has lived in my head for over three years, and now I finally release it unto the world.

Don’t be drinking anything, friends, this is seventy-five percent Rereha POV, which means irreverence is now in full effect and the concept of “being serious” has been chucked directly out the window.

Please enjoy!

RATING: T/PG-13 Word Count: 5,335 Cross-posted to AO3

-------

Rereha threw open the doors to Aymeric’s office, shite-eating grin firmly plastered on her face as she skipped inside, and sang out, “Congratulations! It’s twins!”

Two things happened.

First, as soon as the doors opened, but before Rereha even opened her mouth, Lucia, she of finely honed Frumentarium instincts and years of friendship with a lalafell infamous across the realm for her Theatrics and Shenanigans, reached out and yanked the multitude of reports on the desk in front of Aymeric out of the way.

Second, Aymeric, who had been taking a sip of tea at the exact moment Rereha entered the office, choked and spat out said tea across his desk—and where all of the paperwork had once been not even a second before—in the most glorious spit take Rereha had ever engendered. A tiny part of her was saddened at the waste of perfectly good tea, but, wow, that had been spectacular. She gave herself a mental pat on the back and came to a stop in the middle of the office, grin widening to manic levels.

Lucia pounded Aymeric on the back between his shoulder blades as he coughed and sputtered, stopping only when the Lord Commander wheezed out, wide-eyed, voice high-pitched and halfway to a full-blown panic, “WHAT?!”

Rereha clasped her hands behind her back and rocked back on her heels. “You heard me,” she said, sing-song.

He wheezed again, wordlessly this time, and stared at her with huge blue eyes as all the color slowly drained from his face. He opened his mouth, but only a strangled croak emerged. The grip on his teacup slackened, and Lucia hurriedly whisked it out of his hands and set it aside as she narrowed her eyes at Rereha, one blonde brow slowly ticking upwards.

Really? That expression said.

…All right, perhaps she could have phrased it a little differently to the man who was the bastard son of the last archbishop. Oh, well. She had committed to it, no time to backtrack.

Especially since Synnove had finally arrived, having been forced to take the stairs when Rereha commandeered the elevator up to the Lord Commander’s Seat to beat her there.

Her friend pelted into the office at full tilt, wearing an even wider, more manic grin than Rereha herself was sporting, Galette determinedly hanging onto her left shoulder and Ivar dangling from her right. She was still dressed for the cozy, well-insulated confines of the Arcanists’ Guild offices and laboratories rather than winter, never mind the everwinter of Coerthas: cotton shirt in storm grey under an unbuttoned deep green waistcoat, black slops rolled up to the knees, strappy sandals, everything wrinkled to the seven hells and back because she had been living out of her office for a sennight (again). The bags under her gleaming green eyes were dark and huge, and the thick plait of hair down to her waist was nearly half undone and ghostly-hued from constantly running her chalk-covered hands through it.

Synnove was a godsdamned mess, but for all that her grin was dangerously manic, her overall expression was radiant, easily able to outshine the sun.

The Highlander swerved around Rereha to smack first into Lucia. The Garlean yelped in surprise as Synnove lifted her off her feet in a bear hug, no small feat considering Lucia was taller by a few ilms and also wearing full formal plate. (Galette headbutted Lucia sympathetically.) Synnove set her down again and gave her a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek—Lucia blinked rapidly, too stunned to respond as she stumbled and recovered her balance—and then turned her attention to Aymeric.

She did a brief twirl on the ball of her right foot—the carbuncles made distressed noises at this: Mommy, please stop with the spinning­/Mama, nooooo not again—and came to a stop next to Aymeric, grinning down at him like a lunatic. He briefly glanced at her (flat) stomach, then up at her beaming face, mouth working soundlessly as he tried to regain his ability to speak. Before he could manage that, however, Synnove grasped his face in her hands and swooped down to kiss him. Aymeric flailed helplessly for a moment in shock, then gripped her elbows and went limp and—wow.

Lucia coughed and glanced away and up, finding a particular spot on the ceiling of great interest, a light blush on her cheeks, while both Galette and Ivar recoiled and loudly gagged. Rereha wolf-whistled and applauded, impressed but also surprised. Godsdamn, Synnove. That officially outdid every filthy kiss described in any of the trashy romance novels Rereha had ever read, and she had read a lot of trashy romance novels in her life.

(Also, if she was focusing on that, she wasn’t focusing on her sister-by-choice with said sister-by-choice’s tongue down her lover’s throat, ugh ew ew ew grosssssss.)

Synnove drew back, leaving Aymeric stunned and breathless and gaping like a fish at her as she did another, more energetic twirl. (Lucia ducked around Aymeric’s chair to the other side of the desk to avoid getting smacked by flying carbuncle tails, or potentially flying carbuncles as they struggled to hold on and whined in protest.) She raised her arms, shouting, “I’m a fucking GENIUS!”

“Oh, Fury’s spear,” Lucia said in exasperation, “which laws of reality did you break this time?”

“Not broken,” Synnove replied cheerfully, “just bent!”

Rereha meandered over to the desk and stood up on tiptoe to grasp the edge. With a small grunt of effort, she pulled herself up and clambered onto the desktop, momentarily sprawling on her back and ignoring Lucia’s angry hiss as she disturbed the piled-up paperwork. “Our darling Synnove,” said Rereha primly, lacing her fingers together across her stomach, “has had a breakthrough on her artificial aetheric gemstone infusion process.”

“I’m a fucking genius,” Synnove said again, sing-song. “But I did have a little help…”

---

Synnove dropped into her chair with a soft groan of relief, shaking off her boots and kicking them into the space beneath her desk. She had made it back to Mealvaan’s Gate just in time to assist with getting all the storm shutters closed before the nor’wester hit Limsa Lominsa, and the wind now howled as it pushed through the city, so strong it was raining sideways. The skywatchers were reporting the storm would last another day, possibly two, and if the temperature kept dropping, they might even see a proper snowfall on Vylbrand for the first time in ten years. The Admiral had ordered the city shut down earlier in the day in advance of the storm, the harbor closed, and Limsa Lominsa had been eerily still as her citizens battened down the figurative hatches and got under cover.

The Gate was one of the best places to weather a storm, so Synnove would be camping in her office and living out of the mess hall, the same as many of the other arcanists who had homes outside the city and hadn’t been able to safely leave before the nor’wester struck. Her office at the top of the northeast tower was well-insulated, the Guild larders were well-stocked, and she had a freshly laundered pile of pillows and blankets with which to turn her couch into a nest or pillow fort. And, most importantly: she had treats.

She grinned and dragged the pastry box sitting at the corner of her desk towards herself. The second box full of goodies from her favorite Ala Mhigan café was safely stashed in a locked coldbox, and Galette’s phase-shift functionality disabled, so that box should hopefully last the remainder of the storm. Meanwhile, the carbuncles were enjoying their individual spoils from this first box: Galette was face down in a huge bowl of rose water malabi; Tyr’s muzzle was rapidly being stained purple by his blueberry papanaşi; and Ivar had an entire tray of Grisheld Reeve’s cinnamon and dragon pepper baklava all to himself.

Synnove wiggled her fingers in delight and opened the box, carefully removing the four squares of amandina cake that were alllllll for her and setting them on a clean plate fetched from beneath a pile of paperwork. She rummaged up a fork from one of her desk drawers, and was almost about ready to settle in. Now she just needed reading material.

She reached out to another corner of her desk, hooking her fingers over the edge of a wooden box full of tomestones and pulling it over. The box was neatly divided into sections for different types and she tapped her finger against the box’s rim as she considered the selection. There were the old standbys, full of compiled data on a random assortment of topics ranging from mathematics to gemology, but… Hm, no, something new. Lucia had, for Starlight, gifted her a set of tomestones one of her contacts had, ah, liberated from the laboratory of some chief engineer of one of the Garlean legions, Synnove couldn’t remember which one. Surely there was something on one of those that would pique her interest.

Lucia’s gifts weren’t on the top tray in the box, however, and Synnove lifted it to check the bottom one. Not those, nor those, but—ahah! There they were. She fished out three, set them aside, switched the trays so the bottom one was now on top, and dug out her tablet with the tome reader port from under another stack of papers.

(Perhaps she should do her paperwork instead?

…Nah.)

She clicked one of the tomestones into the port on her tablet and let the translation program run that would turn Old Allagan into a horrifying hodgepodge of Eorzean, Garlean, and Hannish for her to muddle through without needing two separate dictionaries and three grammar primers. (The Echo was useful most of the time, but it was absolute shite at turning highly technical Allagan textbooks into only equally highly technical Eorzean. Better to just read the things in the three scientific languages she knew to which the translator could find an accurate match somewhere.) As the program ran, Synnove resettled herself in her chair to sit cross-legged, and cut off a bite from one of the amandina squares with her fork to pop into her mouth.

Synnove closed her eyes and hummed as she slowly chewed. Mmmm. Layers of rich chocolate buttercream sandwiched between chocolate sponge that had been gently soaked in a caramel-rum syrup, all covered in a layer of almost ganache-like chocolate fondant. Auntie’s version used almond buttercream, but the Reeves’ version was just as good.

As she savored a second bite, her tome reader chimed a cheery little ditty—duhna na na na na na na-nana!—that Rereha had somehow managed to program into it, signaling that the tomestone had been fully translated. Synnove swallowed her cake and picked up the reader, thumbing to the menu.

The Journal of Mathematical Physics, volumes 101-200, from the Meracydian Institute of Physics.

Synnove gasped in delight and hugged her tablet. “Oh, fuck yes. Lucia, you are my new favorite person.”

The next few hours passed by quickly: reading the articles in each journal, occasionally gloating at realizing she or one of her colleagues had figured out a matter that had puzzled the ancient Allagans or frowning thoughtfully at new concepts and taking notes; nibbling intermittently on her cakes, rather than eating immediately one after another, so they lasted longer; breaking from reading, spine cracking unpleasantly from sitting hunched over for so long, to first clean her carbuncles’ faces of sticky sweets, then to head down to the mess for dinner; and finally cozying up on her couch in a nest of pillows with her tablet to continue reading, Tyr cuddling against her right hip and Galette and Ivar burrowing into her left. The last amandina cake was balanced on a plate on the back of the couch next to her head and the lights all turned on, casting a warm glow throughout her office, the arched gable of the tower ceiling lost in shadow.

Synnove hummed thoughtfully as she skimmed through volumes 144 and 145 of the journal. As with all academic treatises, some scientists were better writers than others, and the past few volumes of the journal hadn’t been bad, just…not very engaging. She flicked back to the menu and selected the table of contents for volume 146.

No, no, no, emphatically no, n—wait, yes. Yes, Roksana Blackspark, she had written a few articles in this collection of journals that were entertaining, informative, and thought-provoking; at least half the notes she had scribbled out were because of her. Shame she wasn’t as prolific as some of her colleagues, but that always seemed to be the case with the genuinely talented ones. And this article seemed especially promising: mapping aetheric polarity for spell customization.

She had the sneaking suspicion that sharing this one with the rest of the Guild would lead to some truly spectacular explosions.

Snuggling down into the cuddle pile with a gleeful chortle, Synnove reached for her plate of amandina, setting it down in her lap. (Galette’s nose twitched in her sleep, but she was too cozy and too full to properly awaken to investigate the sugar less than a fulm away.) Cake easily at hand, she began reading, picking up her fork without looking and cutting off another bite to eat.

Synnove was halfway through her cake when her face and hands went slack, fork and tablet both nearly dropping, and her jaw falling open as she stared at the tablet screen.

…What.

While the astral-aspected elements fire and wind have proven to be remarkably stable in self-maintaining neutral polarity, levin frequently skews too far towards astral—or even umbral, in rare cases—to be reliable at high voltages beyond explosive thaumaturgical uses. A similar problem exists with water and ice, which frequently skews too far to umbral, whereas earth aether will achieve polar equilibrium on its own.

The following equations take this lack of natural equilibrium into account when stabilization is required…

What.

“What the fuck,” Synnove said softly as she read, feeling as if she had been clubbed over the head by a gigas’s club. The equations bore a passing resemblance to classical aetheromagnetic theorems on polarization density, except completely turned on its head.

There was no way the problem with her aetheric infusion project was that simple. Swiving aetheric polarization. No. Swiving. Way.

And yet…

It was one of the most basic principles of magic, not just arcanima: astral elements and umbral elements. It was such an accepted, unquestioned foundation that she had never even considered that the three elements most commonly used by arcanists for their carbuncles were not all the same primary polarity. Every element could manifest as either polarity, but Roksana Blackspark was correct, now that Synnove properly thought about it: wind, earth, and fire were much, much more likely to be found in a stable state. Even the Guild’s enormous aether batteries, all the way down in subbasement twelve, had been initially tricky to install until they found the right combination of overgrown elemental clusters, with most of the problems coming from the water, ice, and levin clusters.

Of course trying to infuse any sort of gem with those three elements specifically was going to fail, they were fucking overaspected to astral or umbral. The equations didn’t fucking work as they should because they were built to account for elements that naturally occurred in stable states, and so the infusions fizzled and the gemstones cracked and no carbuncles could manifest.

But.

But if she did account for instability, or, in fact, deliberately found crystals with which to infuse gems that were of opposite polarities so that the final infusion was stable…

A new thought made itself known, and Synnove stuffed the rest of her cake in her mouth, set the plate and fork aside, bookmarked her spot in the journal, and opened up the note taking program, yanking the stylus from the side of the case. As she chewed, she began scribbling in frantic shorthand. Perhaps in addition to ensuring stable aetheric polarity, she could also try infusion over time as well? Even when artificially infusing emeralds, topazes, and rubies, the stones still cracked every one time out of eight. Certainly, working with water, levin, and ice aether would benefit from a slower infusion speed, as it would allow her to keep a better eye on maintaining polar equilibrium, and if that issue was what was affecting the failures for wind, earth, and fire, then that would be two problems solved.

…Perhaps three, Synnove sucking in a deep breath and her heart pounding as she wrote. A proper balance of aetheric polarization combined with a slow enough infusion potentially meant that she could, theoretically, infuse any precious stone she desired, not just ones with a specific hardness and durability. Of course, the equations would need to be further adjusted to take into account the specific chemical properties of the specific gems and how they would need to interact with different elemental aether, but that, while difficult and tedious, was still doable.

Synnove began to vibrate with excitement and she let herself indulge in a wide, half-mad grin.

---

“Obviously I didn’t come up with the correct solutions immediately,” Synnove said, practically buzzing as she finished explaining, “but Roksana Blackspark’s equations proved an excellent starting point. And it WORKED!” She threw her arms up in the air again—Galette and Ivar groaned, once more nearly losing their grip—and danced in place, cackling.

Aymeric was slowly beginning to regain his color, though he was still a bit wide about the eyes and generally poleaxed in appearance. Lucia, not having had the shock of her life nor been snogged until her brain was a puddle, tilted her head thoughtfully, a smile slowly beginning to grow across her features. “And what,” she said, excitement coloring her voice, “did you use as a gemstone for proof of concept?”

“Gemstones,” said Synnove with unmistakable glee. She pulled up the left sleeve of her shirt and thrust her arm out towards Lucia, hand bent upwards. On her wrist, almost glowing against her bronze skin and the green aetheric ink of her tattoos, was the thin braided leather bracelet on which she kept the emerald, topaz, and ruby that were the foci from where Galette, Tyr, and Ivar manifested.

Two new additions hung from the well-worn braid: a pair of truly massive pearls, each perfectly spherical and equal in shape and size to one another, as big as the first phalange of Synnove’s thumb. One was black, with a gorgeous purple iridescence; the second was white with a lovely overtone of sky blue.

In showing off the pearls to Lucia, Synnove had inadvertently positioned her wrist almost directly in front of Aymeric’s face. He finally shook himself to full awareness, crossing his eyes to stare at the bracelet. He said, “Are those the pearls I gave you for Starlight?”

“Yes, they are!” Synnove chirped. “I hadn’t yet decided how I wanted to use them, and considering the oddity of their creation, I wondered if infusing them at the same time might produce interesting results.” She giggled in delight. “And it did!”

Rereha knew the pearls quite well: they had originally been in her mother’s collection before Shushuha sold them to Aymeric (at a friends and family discount, of course). They were properly twin pearls, found in the same giant clam at the estuary of the White Maiden where it emptied into the Strait of Merlthor at the Yafaem Saltmoor. They had a very odd aetheric signature, per Mama’s description (not quite water-aspected, not quite levin), and were unable to be separated more than six ilms before one or the other would…blink back to the side of its sibling. And the clam itself had been the only one still living in the bed: half of the clams in the bed, based on the decay reported from the divers who found the pearls, had been killed from ceruleum poisoning, runoff from the Battle of Silvertear Skies, and the other half had been warped beyond all recognition into the sickly orange crystal growths left by wild aether from the Calamity.

Mama hadn’t been able to sell the pair, no interested buyers in all the years she owned them. Ill luck pearls, supposedly. But Rereha had mentioned them off-handedly to Aymeric while he had been bouncing Starlight gift ideas for Synnove off her and Heron, and he had lit up at the description of them. Synnove, he reasoned, would be delighted by a pair of aetherically strange pearls, even if she couldn’t find an immediate use for them.

(He had been absolutely correct, too; Synnove had shoved the box containing the pearls under nearly everyone’s nose to show them off, squealing in excitement about how Aymeric had gotten them for her and let me tell you the story about them—)

“Twin carbuncles!” Synnove cheered. “I had to infuse them at the same time, so they each contain levin and water aether, but the black pearl absorbs levin more readily, and the white pearl more water.”

“So,” Aymeric said hesitantly, a hint of relief in his voice, “you aren’t pregnant, then?”

“What?” said Synnove, rearing back with a frown. “No! Why would—” She went from confused to unamused in a heartbeat and turned her head to level a poisonous glare on a certain lalafell. “REREHA.”

Ooooh, reverb. But not, I’m going to toss you from the top of the Mizzenmast and into the harbor, levels of reverb. More like, I’m not sharing any of Aunt Angharad’s treats with you.

Rereha shrugged and grinned at her, fairly confidently she wasn’t going to be grievously injured today and that if she was denied Ala Mhigan treats, she could just go to the source of them and make big, sad eyes until Angharad Greywolfe caved. “It’s me,” she said. “Since when have I ever passed up the opportunity to make the obvious joke?”

Synnove gave her a last, vicious look, before turning back to Aymeric with a smile. The elezen had his hand over his mouth, trying and failing to stifle his chuckle.

“Would you like to meet them?” Synnove asked.

“It would be my honor, my love,” Aymeric said fondly, Lucia nodding in agreement beside him.

The arcanist clapped in excitement, spinning on the ball of her foot (Galette and Ivar shrieked and scrambled to hold on), calling out, “Tyr!” and peering down—and stopped, frowning, at the lack of enormous topaz carbuncle by her side. She looked around quizzically. “Where’s Tyr?”

A muffled boof echoed down the hall, from the direction of the Congregation’s lift. Coming, Mama!

Synnove relaxed, bouncing on her toes, ignoring the upset whining of her other two carbuncles trying to stay on her shoulders. Rereha snickered and sat upright, settling herself to sit cross-legged on the edge of Aymeric’s desk.

A few moments later, Tyr trotted into the office, carrying a wicker basket in his mouth. Sorry, Mama, he warbled around the handle. He came right up to Synnove and sat down at her feet. I didn’t want to jostle the babies and had to wait for the lift.

“Aww, you’re such a good big brother,” Synnove cooed, leaning down to scratch behind his ears. Galette and Ivar rolled their eyes and muttered about mama’s boy while Tyr boofed happily, ignoring the two. While Synnove didn’t say anything, she did exaggeratedly shrug her shoulders, jostling her troublemakers; Galette and Ivar yelped, but subsided.

She took the basket from Tyr—who, free of his burden, gave a deep, brassy maow! of hello to Aymeric and Lucia—and set it down in front of Aymeric. “Ready to meet everyone, sweethearts?” she said, sing-song, leaning over the container. (Galette and Ivar used the opportunity to scramble fully onto her shoulders; Galette sat primly, carefully balanced, while Ivar flopped on his belly so he was draped over his perch.)

Two excited cheeps came from inside the basket, only slightly muffled by the wicker. Yeah!

Synnove removed the basket’s lid with a flourish.

A soft green blanket was immediately revealed, under which two forms wriggled. Two little noses poked from beneath the cloth, twitching as the carbuncles to which they were attached scented the air. Then, peeping in excitement, they burst out into the open, pulling themselves up to stand braced on the rim of the basket. HI!

Rereha had, of course, already seen them, but she couldn’t help clasping her hands together and turning into a lump of lalafell mush, even as Lucia gasped in delight and Aymeric visibly melted. The baby carbuncles—and she needed to come up with a cute moniker for that concept; carbunkit? Carbunclet?—were tiny, just big enough for each one to sit comfortably in Synnove’s hands when she cupped them together. They were round and squishy, like a cross between oversized marshmallows and Heavensturn mochi, their legs still stubby and paws itty-bitty, and had yet to grow into their ears and tails: the former were as long as their bodies, and the fluffy trios of the latter as big as the rest of their bodies.

And they weren’t just cute, they were pretty. One was a fathomless black, like the inky depths of the ocean, but as its fur caught the light, it iridesced with an amethyst overlay. The other was the pure, perfect white of midsummer clouds, with the winter sunlight streaming into the office drawing out flashes of blue. The only other spot of color on either was the traditional red triangle cap between their ears and above their huge black eyes.

The twins trilled another high-pitched greeting. HIIIIIIIII!

Synnove, beaming fit to burst, said, “Aymeric, Lucia, I’d like you to meet Amandina and Roksana.” She gently booped the black carbuncle first, then the white one, right between their ears. Amandina wiggled her ears, squinting her eyes closed happily, and Roksana tilted her head back to yip a quick hi mommy! before turning her attention back to the people in front of her and her sister, excitedly waving a paw.

“Roksana, I can understand, but Amandina?” Aymeric laughed, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, shush, you, there’s precedent,” Synnove snarked back and jerked her thumb at Galette, who puffed out her chest in response. “It’s not as if it’s a well-known Abalathian dessert, either, I can get away with another dessert-named carbuncle.”

Rereha leaned over to stage whisper, “And she would have named Roksana ‘Lucia,’ but in Gyr Abania, it’s bad luck to name someone after a person who’s still among the living.”

Synnove nodded, smiling, even as Lucia blushed with pleasure and said wonderingly, “They’re so small.”

“That’s intentional,” said Synnove, petting the carbunclets (Rereha liked that term best so far) again. They both emitted squeaky purrs, still learning how to make the sound. “The aether infusion needs to be very slow to prevent damage to their pearls, so they currently have just enough to manifest. I’ve put in a request for more water and levin crystals acquired from elemental sprites, but it will be a while before I have the requisite amounts to get them to full size, never mind be combat capable. So, for now: baby carbuncles!”

The twins cheered.

Rereha muttered under her breath, “Carefully programmed to be actual hypothetical carbuncle babies, not just carbuncles in miniature…”

Synnove reached out to attempt to smack her upside the head. Rereha, however, using the knowledge acquired from twenty plus years of friendship, rolled backwards off the desk, catching herself on the edge with both hands as Synnove’s arm whiffed through empty air, then pulled herself back up onto her perch with a smug grin. Aymeric coughed to disguise his laugh while all five carbuncles giggled. Synnove huffed and rolled her eyes, but a smirk twitched at the corner of her mouth.

“And now for the rest of the introductions…” Synnove pointed to Lucia, whose expression had steadily become more and more besotted the longer she stared at the tiny carbuncles in their basket. (Reasonable: the babies were obscenely adorable.) “This,” Synnove said to the twins, “is Lucia! She gave me the tomestone that ultimately helped my breakthrough on aetheric infusion.”

Amandina and Roksana cheered again, tapping their paws excitedly on the edge of the basket. HI, AUNT LUCIA!

Lucia made the tiniest, girliest squeal Rereha had ever heard, not just from the woman in question, but ever period. “Oh, hello, sweethearts,” she cooed. She took off one of her gauntlets and held her bare hand out to them; they immediately headbutted her fingers, cheeping happily, and she smiled so hard her face must have hurt as she gently pet first Roksana, then Amandina. “Aren’t you just the most precious darlings.”

The twins preened as Synnove chuckled and gently stroked them between their ears. “And this,” she continued, pointing to the Lord Commander, the babies obediently swiveling their heads to follow, “is Aymeric! He’s the one who gave me your pearls.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Amandina, Miss Roksana,” Aymeric said, at his most charmingly formal as he smiled down at them.

The babies blinked up at the elezen. Tilted their heads back to look at Synnove. Looked back up at Aymeric. Back at their mama. Up at Aymeric. Looked at each other.

Rereha would swear up, down, and sideways that in the split-second they exchanged glances, those two suddenly wore expressions that could out-do Galette while channeling her Garuda-egi subprogramming at her most demonically mischievous. Galette herself peered down at the pair, perturbed, one ear cocked upright and the other sideways in a perfect ninety-degree angle, while Ivar narrowed his eyes suspiciously at them. Tyr burbled a questioning little maow.

The twins turned back to Aymeric, their faces all sweetness and light once more, and chirped, in chorus, HI, PAPA!

Lucia and Rereha, in unintentional unison, slapped their hands over their own mouths, staring first at the baby carbuncles, before slowing turning to look at Synnove and Aymeric. Synnove and Aymeric, meanwhile, both froze, their minds clearly screeching to a near-audible halt, smiles still locked in place but their eyes widening to almost impossible proportions in shock. Deep, fluorescent blushes crawled up both their faces; Aymeric’s ears practically glowed. Amandina and Roksana started bouncing up and down excitedly, shaking the basket, their ears wiggling and tails twitching, while their delighted yipping chant of hi papa hi papa hi papa hi papa echoed through the office and probably down the corridor.

Ivar made an absolutely disgusted noise, covering his ears with his paws in an attempt to drown out his baby sisters. Galette and Tyr, meanwhile, exchanged a very thoughtful look. Galette flicked an ear. Tyr nodded.

Then they, too, swiveled their heads to look at Aymeric, and proceeded to join the chanting with unrepentant glee: Hi, Papa!

Ivar groaned. No. No, I refuse. His siblings all ignored him, simply chanted louder.

Synnove and Aymeric were flushed so red it was beginning to appear painful. Aymeric made a strangled noise in the back of his throat as he dragged his gaze upward to meet Synnove’s. Synnove opened her mouth to say something, jaw working furiously, but all that came out was a high-pitched squeak.

Rereha and Lucia made the mistake of glancing at one another out of the corners of their eyes. As soon as their eyes met, they both broke, Lucia sputtering and snorting, bringing her other, still-gauntleted hand up to her face in an attempt to muffle the sound of her undignified laughter. Rereha, of course, had never had any dignity, and just threw back her head to ugly cackle like a hyena.

Finally, Aymeric managed words, strained as they were—but with the shock was mixed equal parts delighted laughter and joy: “You’re the one who breaks the news about this to your aunt.”

Synnove squeaked again.

Rereha cackled harder.

And the carbuncles—sans Ivar, still moaning in disgust—kept chanting, Hi, Papa!

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #aymeric de borel #aymeric x wol #aymeric x synnove #lucia goe junius #oc: rereha reha #oc: synnove greywolfe #synnove's carbuncles #dt's writing #IT'S DONE #HALLELUJAH

[onwesterlywinds]

The Prima Vista’s infirmary is a white room with only a single bed. Grissom lies upon the bed in stark contrast to the rest of the immaculate room; he is blond, olive-skinned, with a face drawn into a frown even while he sleeps. A white sheet is pulled over his body. Ashelia Riot speaks gently but firmly in the hopes he'll wake. Ashelia Riot: Grissom. Grissom does not stir. Nivelth Ajuyn looks over the man, automatically trying to sense his condition. She at least has some healer training. Priscilla Scaevola has been uncharacteristically silent on the way to the infirmary. Ivaan Arkwright gives the post of the bed a sharp kick with an armored foot. At the sound so like magitek, the man's eyes burst open, wide and unfocused; he lets out a hoarse sound that might be a moan. Something is very, very wrong with him - starting with the bedsheet.

Grissom continues breathing heavily, but he does not acknowledge the others in the room: he wheezes, coughs, and a bit of blood oozes from the corner of his mouth. Ivaan Arkwright: A vegetable. Ashelia Riot scowls at Ivaan Arkwright. Ashelia Riot: Shhh. Ashelia Riot has seen Ala Mhigans like this before - many of them so lost in their own traumas that they can scarcely function. Nivelth Ajuyn: I could try a Benefic. Ashelia Riot nods. Nivelth Ajuyn takes out her grimoire and it floats in the air next to her, rotating not unlike an astrometer; there is a quick sensation of light gathering, before she pushes the spell onto the man. The spell eases his labored breathing somewhat; he closes his eyes but does not seem to fall back asleep. Priscilla Scaevola seems at first queasy at the sight in front of her; she kneels in front of the bed, trying to measure any sort of response, and speaks gently. Priscilla Scaevola: Hey, can you hear me? Grissom: A-Aye. Grissom: ...Riskbreakers. Ashelia Riot says nothing; her face is utterly serious. Priscilla Scaevola: What happened? Why all this? The running? Rabanastre? The bomb? Ashelia Riot thinks it smells like decay, and sickness; for a moment, her memories throw her back to Little Ala Mhigo, and caring for a boy who would never become a man. Grissom: It was... Grissom whispers something, very quietly. Grissom: You have them... the stones... Nivelth Ajuyn goes to place her hands in her pockets, quietly gripping the very stone he mentions. Grissom suddenly turns to Nivelth Ajuyn, his eyes at once very intent. Grissom: You. You I... wondered about... most of all... Priscilla Scaevola follows his gaze, then back at him. Nivelth Ajuyn meets his eyes squarely. Nivelth Ajuyn: Speak. Answer Priscilla's questions. Nivelth Ajuyn channels a bit of energy into the stone and sees through the thin bedsheet to what lies underneath. Grissom gives a small, weak smile. Grissom: The legatus. He will have... much to answer for. And he has left... not a thing to chance. Ashelia Riot's eyes widen at the mention of the legatus. Ashelia Riot: Noah van Gabranth? He was behind all of this? Nivelth Ajuyn frowns down at the man, and taps her foot - she's not staring at his face, instead at his torso. Ivaan Arkwright hears a single footstep in the hallway beyond. Ivaan Arkwright: Shhh... Ivaan Arkwright puts a hand on the hilt of the large knife hanging sheathed from the small of his back; without another word, he creeps past the curtain and listens around the corner for any further noise from the door. There is no further sound in the immediate vicinity. Nivelth Ajuyn flicks an ear in that direction, but she looks distracted. Ivaan Arkwright reaches an arm behind the curtain at his back, waving on the others to continue; he himself remains in place, all senses trained on that door. Grissom appears distressed at the reference to Legatus Noah van Gabranth; his breaths come harshly once more. Nivelth Ajuyn: Why does the legatus bother you? Priscilla Scaevola raises an arm. Priscilla Scaevola: Calm down, old man. No one here will hurt you. Priscilla Scaevola sits now besides him on the bed. Priscilla Scaevola: Do you have family? a wife? children? At some point you must have loved your nation. Give us something... Grissom merely shakes his head at the question about Noah van Gabranth. Grissom: My brother Duane - dead now. Grissom closes his eyes, clearly indulging in some long-lost memory. Grissom: Killed... by the Witch of Dalmasca herself. I left a stone with him. His stone. Priscilla Scaevola may recall, back in the Barheim Passage, the corpse from which Akhutai took his stone - a corpse that looked to have been blown up. Priscilla Scaevola: Did you make the bomb? Grissom: I did. Priscilla Scaevola: Where did you learn. Was it the stones? Grissom: ...Aye. The stones, they are... not so different from magitek. The stones showed me... the truth of things. Priscilla Scaevola covers her mouth in thought. Priscilla Scaevola: Was it to make him pay? Grissom makes a motion that might be like shaking his head, had he the energy for it. Grissom: I thought to... to force the Resistance's hand. To spur them... to action. They, with such power at their disposal... and the Princess did nothing... Priscilla Scaevola: You wanted change, and the stones told you how to do it... Ashelia Riot: But what of the legatus? Do not tell me you acted out of concern for Dalmasca. Grissom now stares at Ashelia Riot. Grissom: And what good a kingdom without order, Ashelia Marco Riot? Ashelia Riot glares at the use of her full name. Ashelia Riot: I've heard enough. Ashelia Riot won't say it in front of Grissom, but she has decided what sort of person he is: a selfish revolutionary determined to ally with the powerful to obtain his own ends. Nivelth Ajuyn: How did you manage to use the stones to power yourself...? Grissom: Surely you know. Nivelth Ajuyn frowns at the man. Nivelth Ajuyn: It won't be your body failing that kills you, Grissom. Nivelth Ajuyn's voice sounds certain. Nivelth Ajuyn: Or even the body that you've created. Ashelia Riot: Nive, what- Nivelth Ajuyn: He's half magitek, powered by aether. He doesn't even have a heart. Priscilla Scaevola raises an eyebrow as she stares at Nivelth Ajuyn. Grissom falls silent. Nivelth Ajuyn looks to the other women in the room. Nivelth Ajuyn: The stones powered him. That's why there was a stone in his boot, when Bull hit him. Ivaan Arkwright, too, is distracted by this revelation. Grissom: ...See for yourself. Grissom nonetheless does not have the energy, or perhaps the means, to lift his hand to draw back the bedsheet himself. Priscilla Scaevola reaches to uncover his body, and her hands shake, afraid of the possibilities. The body beneath the sheet is like nothing the party has seen before. Much of him has been transmuted into metal - not in the form of a magitek prosthesis, like Akhutai or Malla: whole parts of him have become an animated machine. Nivelth Ajuyn looks down at the man, her ears pointed backwards. Her hand clenches around the stone in her pocket, and she pushes another bit of aether into it. His arms are metal rods over which pieces of pitch-black plate are assembled; his right leg is covered in the same sort of covering. But it’s his torso that’s most disconcerting: where a Hyuran chest and ribs and organs should be, there is only a fist-sized core, glowing as it feeds energy to the rest of his body. Ashelia Riot: ... Priscilla Scaevola exhales, secretly relieved: she commits what she sees to memory. Nivelth Ajuyn: How many stones powered you? Grissom: I do not know. Nivelth Ajuyn tilts her head, considering. Nivelth Ajuyn: Did you sacrifice some of your own stones to power the bomb? Grissom: There have been so many... going in and out of my keeping. The door to the infirmary creaks open a fraction. Nivelth Ajuyn: We've counted ten so far. Are there more that you know of? Ivaan Arkwright turns his attention back to the creaking door, and slowly draws the blade from the small of his back: a worn, curved blade about a fulm long, set into a hilt of burled maple. Ivaan Arkwright stays out of sight of the door, waiting, letting the others continue so that this individual might think they had gone unnoticed. Grissom: Ten? Grissom closes his eyes. Grissom: Oh, Faram... A lacy sleeve slips through the doorway, then a red ponytail bound in a black ribbon falls into view. Ivaan Arkwright remains stock still, only the slightest part of him needed to peek around the corner exposed. Nivelth Ajuyn's questions are becoming sharper. Nivelth Ajuyn: Ten. More or less than you thought? Grissom: There are two more... if they are not with the Riskbreakers, then... The eavesdropper takes just one more step inside. Ivaan Arkwright might have seen her around the Prima Vista: a teenage girl by the name of Alma bas Lexentale. Ivaan Arkwright relaxes just a little, hostility turning to curiosity; he stows the knife back in its resting place and steps out around the corner. Ivaan Arkwright: This was supposed to be a private room, miss. Alma bas Lexentale: I-I'm sorry. I saw the medic leave and I was only making sure he was... Ashelia Riot looks up at the sound of the new voice. Priscilla Scaevola rubs her temple, a bit overwhelmed by the ordeal, though her curiosity shifts when she hears the voice. Nivelth Ajuyn doesn't look away from Grissom. Ivaan Arkwright raises his hands in a calming gesture. Ivaan Arkwright: It is best that you do not see... He is a dangerous man, and in a grisly state. Nivelth Ajuyn frowns, her voice carrying easily. Nivelth Ajuyn: Ivaan? Does she have a knife? Alma bas Lexentale lowers her gaze, then she protests at Nivelth Ajuyn's question. Alma bas Lexentale: No! I never meant- I just wanted to... Ivaan Arkwright: ...Would you mind putting my companion at ease? If you would not mind just turning out your pockets... Alma bas Lexentale does so, trembling a little; the only items in her pockets are a small scroll, a pen, and a capped needle and thread. Ivaan Arkwright: I think we are safe, Nive. Nivelth Ajuyn gives an assenting noise. Nivelth Ajuyn: Alright. Sorry for being paranoid. Ashelia Riot: I'm sorry, Alma. Ashelia Riot feels an affinity with this girl, and - aside from the fact that her aunt shares a name with this girl - she is uncertain why. Ashelia Riot: ...She meant only to learn more of the auracite. Is that not so? Alma bas Lexentale hesitates, then nods. Ivaan Arkwright looks slightly concerned: what would somebody that young want to learn about something as dangerous as auracite? Ivaan Arkwright: What for, if I may? Alma bas Lexentale only shakes her head. Ashelia Riot: That can wait. Grissom looks to be falling asleep once again; Ashelia Riot, at least, is done questioning him - for now. Ivaan Arkwright looks back behind the curtain, the man falling silent. Ivaan Arkwright: Is he... Nivelth Ajuyn turns to Priscilla Scaevola. Nivelth Ajuyn: Do you have any more questions? Priscilla Scaevola shakes her head. Priscilla Scaevola: I think we should leave. Ashelia Riot nods, then exits the room, going to take notes before she forgets what has been said - or seen. Nivelth Ajuyn dithers for a moment, staring down at the man: she reaches to cover up the ball of energy that serves for his chest, but doesn't leave yet. Grissom does not move; as Nive goes to cover up his body, though, he speaks. Grissom: May that stone treat you better than it treated me. Nivelth Ajuyn frowns down at him. Nivelth Ajuyn: ... You don't know the stone I have. Priscilla Scaevola puts on a happier facade as she takes it upon herself to escort Alma bas Lexentale away, teasing her about being in so much trouble. Grissom says nothing in reply, but Nivelth Ajuyn may have the sense that he does indeed know which stone she has. Nivelth Ajuyn shudders, and decides to turn to go, and her hand finds the stone in her pocket again. Ivaan Arkwright is waiting, so as not to leave Nivelth Ajuyn behind, and leaves with her.

#Phantom Pains RISK #Nivelth Ajuyn #Ivaan Arkwright #Priscilla Scaevola #Ashelia Riot

[kivaember]

Prompt #8: Crag

Z’khuqa was currently regretting her life’s choices.

Specifically, she was regretting boldly declaring herself a master of slaying antlions to the unimpressed Ala Mhigan soldier when she had never seen an antlion in her fucking life. Ala Mhigo was awash with adventurers now, plenty of people sensing job opportunities at a country tentatively crawling out of a crippling occupation, so you had to have some pizzazz, a bit of oomph, something special, to stand up above the average, run-of-the-mill, penniless and desperate for gil adventurer and land the real jobs.

Unfortunately, Z’khuqa may as well be the poster child of the average, run-of-the-mill, penniless and desperate for gil adventurer. She envisioned adventuring life being totally different to how she imagined it when she left her tribe last summer, and her dreams of glory, money and all the babes she could woo disintegrating into disappointed reality the moment she set foot in Ul’dah.

Fucking Ul’dah.

Z’khuqa grunted as she cautiously shifted on the tiny ledge she was stuck on, loose pebbles crumbling from the edge of it and pattering down below, where a hungry congregation of antlions snapped and clicked their awful pincers at her. She envisioned antlions being… smaller. These ones were three times the size of destrier Chocobos and ten times as mean.

“Please, go away,” she hissed, pressing herself flat against the jagged rock digging into her back. Below the antlions just continued to sit there, perfectly content to wait her out. The crag she frantically climbed up in her panic to escape was heavily weathered with age and war, and there was half an Imperial gunship buried into the side of it, with large, worrying cracks and stress lines cutting through the sandy rock. Z’khuqa already almost fell to her death when trying to climb higher and enjoyed the unpleasant experience of her handhold just crumbling right out of the rock.

She was stuck, plain and simple. Antlions below, ready to tear her limb from limb, and weak, heavily stressed rock all around her, ready to drop her down below for the inevitable dismemberment.

If she thought to keep hold of her bow, she could have made this work. She could have sat on this ledge, cackling as she feathered the fucking antlions until they scurried away in a huff, or died. But no, she fucking used it as a bludgeon when the first antlion had tried to drag her beneath the sands in a terrifyingly efficient ambush. The poor thing had snapped after the third whack, though it did free her enough to flee up here.

Her legs were cramping up. She was stuck in a highly uncomfortable squatting position on the tiny ledge, and no matter how she wriggled her toes and shifted as much as she dared, her legs were just aching pain. Plus, the hot stickiness clinging to her left calf that was a steady thrum of pain, where the antlion’s jaws had cut through her leather greaves. She didn’t know how much longer she could endure this.

“Go away,” she repeated, her voice wobbling on the verge of tears when one antlion, tired of waiting it seemed, started to curiously tap its front legs on the face of the crag. Thankfully they weren’t like spiders, they were too heavy to just walk up the cliff face – but it could still find footholds, could still heave itself up enough to snag her leg and drag her down.

Z’khuqa quickly leveraged a chunk of powdery stone from near her foot, ignoring the stinging pain in her fingers as the sharp edges of rock bit into her skin, and lobbed it full force at the antlion’s head. It retreated with an offended noise, snapping its jaws and settling to wait once more with its fellows.

“Y-Yeah, you stay down there,” she sniffed, turning her head to try and see if an escape route had magically materialised in the last five minutes, “Got more rocks where that came from.”

No escape route, but Z’khuqa was getting desperate enough to make her own.

“Okay,” she mumbled, pushing through the pain of cramping muscles as she slowly, tentatively, painfully stood up. Vertigo almost hit her when she felt her centre of balance shift, her fingers frantically scrabbling at the rock behind her as she forced her weight onto her heels, her tail trapped uncomfortably between her ass and the rock. She ignored it.

“Okay,” she mumbled again, scooting half a fulm to her left. The gunship was buried on this side of the cliff, its metal rusted with exposure to the elements so parts of it were gaping holes and dirty brown. She could see where scavengers had picked the magitek clean of any valuable parts, leaving the thin, metal shell just sadly embedded into the rock. The thing was, though, was that the gunship bridged the gap between this crag, and the one next over.

Well, okay, there was a six fulm gap from the very edge of the gunship to the next crag, but any Miqo’te worth their salt could make that jump. She could make it. She had to make it.

The antlions stirred below at her movements, and she forced herself to ignore the clicking, snapping and skittering noises as she edged, slowly, towards the very far left of the ledge. The gunship remains was two fulms below and seven fulms further left. She would have to either climb there or jump.

Z’khuqa critically eyed the rusting metal. She doubted it could take high impacts well.

Gods, she was sweating buckets here. Feeling her underclothes stick uncomfortably to her, she swiped quickly at her forehead, her fringe matted against her damp skin, as she started the nerve-wracking process of turning around when there really wasn’t any room to support such a daring action. She wobbled, her balance tested, and she made a very embarrassingly distressed noise before she was facing the rockface, practically hugging it as she braced herself for the next part.

She used to like free climbing, but never did she have to climb when hungry, voracious predators sat below her. It added a terrified pressure to the whole thing that she could really do without.

“Get it together,” she whispered harshly, her voice high-pitched with fear as she started to carefully inch off the inch, testing each handhold and foothold before putting her weight onto them as she made the terrifying journey to the gunship, “That’s it. You’re doing it. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.”

She kept up the litany until her foot tentatively pressed against the rusted metal of the gunship’s hull. It was curved and had crumpled on impact, so it was difficult to get a steady footing when she shuffled onto it. Beneath her boots, the entire thing groaned, a metallic, eerie noise that made her fur stand on end right to the tip of her tail.

But it held. Thank fuck the metal held.

“Don’t fall,” she hissed, crouching low so she was squatting on the rusting hull. Below her the antlions were agitatedly moving about, clearly realising she was in the process of escaping, “Okay. Like you’re on thin ice, spread your body weight, move sloooow…”

The amount of willpower it took to let go of the crag was phenomenal. Breaths hitching in the back of her throat, her limbs shaking so badly she probably looked like a shitting dog, she crawled forwards on the crumpled hull until she was flat on her belly, spreading her weight out on the unstable surface. There were massive patches where the metal had rusted through, exposing the metal beams inside like some magitek skeleton.

Through the fear, there was a part of her that was elated. She was doing it. She was doing it.

“You’re fine,” she muttered feverishly, slowly leopard crawling over the hull, flinching every time the metal squeaked, groaned and screeched from her weight. The whole thing was shuddering under her, and she was sure she was leaving a wet trail from how heavily she was sweating, but she kept her gaze laser focused on the edge of the hull, where the other, more stable looking crag loomed.

You’re doing it. You’re fine. Almost there.

Z’khuqa reached the edge, where the hull cut off in a ragged tear. It looked something had ripped the gunship in half – that or its weight forced the rear end of it to just rip free. Gulping, because she could feel the entire structure start to tip warningly from her weight, she rose onto her hands and knees, eyeing the distance. It looked so far away, despite being so close. She’d only get one shot too, and yet…

The hull wobbled beneath her feet, making it fucking impossible to stand up straight and balanced. She gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut briefly, before she mustered her courage and surged forwards in a leap to make any Miqo’te proud. Behind her there was a deafening crunch of metal grinding against rock, the squeals of antlions as, for a split second, she was weightless and hopeful and-

Z’khuqa slammed into the crag.

Her hands scrambled wildly, and for a moment she had purchase. She clung onto her handhold, her feet frantically pushing into the rocky surface for a better grip when-

The rock broke off beneath her hand.

It was funny, then. Everything went horrifically slow as her body pitched backwards, her hand still clutching the broken off handhold, the other reaching out in vain for a crag out of reach. For that moment she saw a bright blue sky without even a single cloud, the rocky crags jutting high over her, and she wished something profound or cool flitted through her mind but all she thought then was ‘oh fuckballs-‘

She hit the ground.

It drove all the air right out of her lungs, her vision whiting out when a sharp, overwhelming pain lashed right through her shoulder all the way down her ribcage. She couldn’t even breathe, just writhed on the ground in wheezing agony, unable to get her limbs to coordinate enough to get up, just flopped on the ground like a dumbass beached fish, hearing the skittering and crunching of stone and fuck, oh fuck, oh fuckfuckfuckfuck-

“-et out of THE DAMN WAY BUGSHITS!”

Z’khuqa coughed and squinted through the blurry mess her vision had become at that unfamiliar yelling. A woman…? A woman! A woman, yelling and – the antlions screeching and squealing and – vibrations against the ground, scuffling, and then… silence. All Z’kuqa could see was the crag she had fallen off, with the gunship she leapt off looking several degrees lower than before, the sky and all that spinning in a disorientating circle. Gods, she was in so much pain.

“Well damn,” a voice cut through the haze of pain, and then someone was leaning over her – horned, dark scales, dark hair, bright blue eyes – “You’re alive?”

“Urghck?” Z’khuqa groaned.

“I saw that fall. Looked pretty nasty,” the unknown woman said conversationally, like Z’khuqa wasn’t lying here in crippling agony, “But hey, you Miqo’te are pretty good at surviving falls. Too bad you didn’t land on your feet, eh?”

“Nngh… ffuu… ck off,” Z’khuqa managed to grunt out, gritting her teeth when the unknown woman just chortled like that was the funniest thing she had ever heard.

“I’m just joking, c’mon,” the woman sniggered, “Never mind. Name’s Bluebird, by the way. Got any allergies to potions before I shove one down your throat?”

“Nnnoo…”

“Awesome,” Bluebird said, and there was an odd rustling noise, glass clinking on glass, “I’m guessing you’re Z’khuqa?”

“Ngh?”

“Well,” Bluebird leaned out of view, followed by the pop of a cork being pulled free, “I was sent this way, ‘cuz Jorund was saying an adventurer called Z’khuqa hadn’t come back to him about the antlion infestation she promised to deal with. Took care of that for you by the way, no worries.”

Z’khuqa said nothing, something like mortified shame creeping through the cracks of her pain. Great.

“So much for being a ‘master of slaying antlions’, huh?” Bluebird jeered at her as she leaned back into view, gently cupping the back of her head as she tipped a softly glowing bottle of potion to her lips, “Silly girl. That’s how adventurers die young.”

Maybe getting knocked unconscious from the fall would’ve been kinder, Z’khuqa thought flatly, quickly swallowing when Bluebird forced her to drink the potion. Her insides tingle, the clean aether cooling the hot pain thumping through her enough for it to be bearable – and for her to move.

“There,” Bluebird tossed the bottle away once it was empty, where it smashed audibly out of view, “Okay, my good deed is done for the day. Can you move?”

“Ngh, a little…” Z’khuqa coughed, gingerly leveraging herself up into sitting position. Her vision was still a little blurry, and her body felt black and blue, her bones aching… but she could breathe, she could move, and her vision wasn’t spotty with agony, “Yeah.”

“Good,” Bluebird pushed herself up to her feet then, brushing her hands together as she – literally – washed her hands of the matter entirely, “Have fun walking back to the Ala Mhigan Quarter. Maybe that’ll teach you to lie about being qualified for a job, yeah?”

“Y-Yeah,” Z’khuqa stuttered, bewildered as the woman gave her a nod and then just… walked away from her. Just like that.

… well then.

Thoroughly shamefaced – but also disgustingly grateful to be alive, albeit not in one full piece – Z’khuqa slowly climbed to her feet. The antlions’ bodies were huddled against the crag, horrifically dismembered to the point where she didn’t know where one antlion began and the other ended. It was disquieting to see, and Z’khuqa turned away, noting that ‘Bluebird’ was nowhere to be seen. Just who was she?

Probably a successful adventurer, one that hadn’t been pleased about Z’khuqa nabbing a job and bungling it. She bowed her head, taking a short, painful breath, then started to limp back towards civilisation. Bluebird was right, this whole experience would teach her to lie about her skills again. Maybe she should be content in just being an average adventurer and stick to Dodos…

Or maybe she should go out with someone else next time, give that whole party thing a chance. She didn’t like to share glory but, better to share it than end up antlion food, right?

It was a long, painful walk back to Ala Mhigo… but still, it was sweet to be alive. 

#ffxivwrite2018 #ffxiv #fanfic #original characters #what's this #fic where i don't write aza??? #amazing